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I 


ADVENTURES 
IN  PROPAGANDA 

LETTERS  FROM 

AN  INTELLIGENCE  OFFICER 

IN  FRANCE 

By  HEBER  BLANKENHORN 

CAPTAIN,    MILITARY  INTELLIGENCE  DIVISION,  U.S.A. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(t()e  iaitjecj^tde  ^xtH  CambciDse 

1919 


COPYRIOHT,  I9T9,  BY  RBBXR  BLANKENHORN 
AI.L  RIGHTS  RXSKRVBD 


•:  ••• 


•. :  :.•:  •.••• 


•       .    •• 


,  •»•      •  •  •< 


CA 


PREFACE 

Truth  has  accumulated  many  attributes,  but  it 
remained  for  the  greatest  struggle  of  humanity 
to  place  it  among  high  explosives  and  poison  gas 
as  munitions  of  war.  For  the  first  time  in  the  his- 
tory of  military  operations  the  truth  was  used  as 
an  effective  weapon.  It  was  to  organize  its  use  by 
the  Army  of  the  United  States  that  my  husband 
sailed  for  France  on  Bastille  Day,  July  14,  191 8, 
with  a  group  of  six  Intelligence  officers. 

They  were  directed  first  to  establish  relations 
with  the  Propaganda  Boards  of  France,  England, 
and  Italy,  then  to  proceed  to  General  Headquar- 
ters, A.E.F.,  and  assemble  the  machinery  for  a 
propaganda  drive  over  the  enemy  lines  during  the 
autumn  of  191 8.  The  following  winter,  the  closed 
season  for  military  offensives,  they  originally 
planned  to  devote  to  intensive  work  among  the 
peoples  and  armies  of  Austria-Hungary  and  to 
return  to  their  attack  on  German  morale  with  the 
Army's  promised  offensive  in  the  spring  of  191 9. 
It  was  an  ambitious  programme,  —  one  that 
savored  of  impudence  on  the  part  of  so  small 

[V] 


Preface 


and  inexperienced  a  band,  —  but  they  went  like 
young  crusaders,  determined  to  slay  dragons 
and  overcome  evil.  Their  plans  were  changed 
by  Foch's  sudden  swing  from  defense  to  attack 
in  the  summer  of  191 8,  which  called  for  imme- 
diate activity  on  the  Western  Front. 

Before  they  left  America,  the  Administration, 
recognizing  that  the  machinery  for  their  work 
was  wholly  military,  had  directed  that  the  Army 
should  prepare  and  distribute  propaganda  over  the 
enemy  lines.  The  Committee  on  Public  Informa- 
tion was  expected  to  collaborate  in  the  preparation 
of  material,  but  during  the  onrush  of  events  which 
made  history  in  the  final  weeks  of  October  5th  to 
November  nth,  it  remained  for  President  Wilson 
himself  to  become  the  unique  propagandist,  not 
alone  for  humanity,  but  in  a  very  literal  sense  for 
the  A.E.F.  The  Army's  whole  machinery  for  print- 
ing, translation,  and  distribution  was  set  to  the 
work  of  getting  the  President's  messages  into  the 
pockets  of  the  German  soldier.  The  difficulties  of 
keeping  this  intellectual  offensive  abreast  of  an 
advancing  and  victorious  army  were  enormous. 
That  they  were  overcome  is  shown  by  the  evidence 
of  well-thumbed  propaganda  pamphlets  in  the 
hands  of  every  two  out  of  three  German  prisoners 

[vi] 


Preface 

who  came  into  our  lines  during  the  last  days  before 
the  armistice. 

England,  France,  Italy,  and  Russia  had  spread 
the  evidences  of  her  crimes  throughout  Germany 
for  nearly  four  years  before  the  United  States 
came  into  the  fight.  We  had  in  this,  as  in  every 
other  field,  the  use  of  their  experience  and  ma- 
chinery. It  was  our  good  fortune  to  bring  new 
strength  to  the  truth  offensive,  as  we  had  brought 
fresh  blood  to  the  line,  at  the  moment  when  both 
were  most  needed.  Our  contribution  to  the  war 
of  ideas  was  due  to  the  enthusiasm  and  convic- 
tion of  the  right  inspired  in  the  men  who  han- 
dled these  weapons  by  the  man  who  provided 
their  most  effective  material,  Woodrow  Wilson, 
President  of  the  United  States. 

MARY  DEWHURST  BLANKENHORN 

New  York  City 
February  1919 


NOTE 

It  is  almost  needless  to  say  that  the 
following  letters  were  written  with  no 
thought  of  publication.  They  were,  in 
fact,  edited  and  submitted  to  the  publish- 
ers before  consultation  with  the  writer. 


.i 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

American  Propaganda  showing  the  Growth 
OF  THE  American  Army  in  France     .     Frontispiece 

The  German  reads:  — 

"More  than  1,900,000  American  troops  are  now  in 
France,  and  more  than  ten  times  as  many  stand 
ready  in  America." 

(Below,  at  left.)  "The  yearly  increase  of  the  Ameri- 
can Army  in  France:  From  76,000  men  to  1,800,000 
men." 

(Below,  at  right.)  "The  picture  above  shows  the 
monthly  arrivals  of  American  troops." 

Kind  Warnings  FROM  THE  Enemy!  ....     14 

German  Propaganda  Newspaper  published  in  Frank- 
fort for  Circulation  among  the  A.E.F. 

Wall  at  General  Headquarters,  A.E.F.,  with 
Exhibit  of  British  and  German  Propa- 
ganda     . 52 

Brotherly  Frightfulness  (British  Propa- 
ganda)      54 

The  Murder  of  Russian  Freedom  by  German  So- 
cialists after  the  Brest-Litovsk  Treaty. 

KuLTUR  Cartoon  sent  by  the  Germans  over 

AND    INTO    THE    LiNES    OF   THE    BrITISH    FiFTH 

Army  in  March,  1918 54 

Wall  at  General  Headquarters,  A.E.F.,  with 
Exhibit  of  French  Propaganda  and  the 
Beginnings  of  an  American  Exhibit    .       .    ^ 

[  xi  1 


Illustrations 

The  Hunger  Drive:  American  Menus  used 

OFFENSIVELY    OVER     THE     EnEMY     LiNES     AND 

TO  BE  SENT  HOME  BY  BoCHE  PRISONERS         .         .      78 

The  correspondence  side  of  this   "Field   Postcard 

for   German   soldiers    captured   by   the   American 

Army"  reads:  — 

"Take  this  card,  write  the  address  of  your  family  on 

it,  and  if  you  are  captured  by  the  Americans,  give  it 

to  the  officer  in  command  of  your  detachment.   He 

will  make  it  his  business  to  send  it  off  and  so  relieve 

your  relatives  as  to  your  condition. 

"Write  nothing  on  this  side. 

"  Strike  out  what  is  not  the  case. 

{Slightly  wounded 
Seriously  wounded 
Unhurt 
"  Do  not  worry  about  me.  The  war  is  over  for  me. 
I  have  good  food.    The  American  Army  gives  its 
prisoners  the  same  food  as  its  own  soldiers:  Beef, 
white  bread,  potatoes,  beans,  prunes,  coffee,  milk, 
butter,  tobacco,  etc." 

The  Meaning  of  St.-Mihiel  (American  Prop- 
aganda)          94 

The  legend  above  the  map  reads:  — 
"The   salient,  where  the  Germans  had  defended 
themselves  for  four  years,  was  taken  in  27  hours  by 
the  Americans." 
Below:  — 

"  [The  shaded  line]  Front  on  the  morning  of  Septem- 
ber 12. 

"  fPhe  dotted  line]  Front  on  the  morning  of  Septem- 
ber 13. 

"390  square  kilometers  were  gained. 
"The  number  of  prisoners  amounts  to  15,000." 

American  Justice  (German  Propaganda)  .      .122 
From  Kladderadatsch,  September  8,  19 18. 

[xii] 


Illustrations 

The  four  legends  read  as  follows:  — 
"In  Kansas  the  Pro-German  Jimmy  Walker  was 
lynched.   The  murderers  were  acquitted." 
"  The  nigger  Sam  Darky  shot  the  widow  Aunt  Lizzy 
because  she  was  reading  the  Bible  in  the  Lutheran 
version.    He  was  acquitted." 

"The  Chippeway  Indian  Bloody  Shirt  lassoed  the 
boy  Tommy  Pinkleton  because  he  was  carrying  a  few 
Frankfurters  for  his  father.  He  was  acquitted." 
"Professor  Woodrow  Wilson  has  written  a  book  ac- 
cording to  which  Germany  is  the  best  governed  state. 
He  was  acquitted." 

G.  2.'s  Christmas  Card 154 


ADVENTURES 
IN  PROPAGANDA 

I 

Somewhere  at  Sea, 
July  17,  191 8 
Already  my  world  is  completely  one  of  khaki; 
throngs,  orders,  movements,  bigness  —  a  great 
task.  Surely  it  is  good  fortune  that  we  go  as  we 
do.  I  've  been  inexpressibly  helped  by  the  push- 
ing, seething  throng  about  me  —  even  the  red 
tape  was  for  once  a  diversion. 

Talking  at  sea  or  of  the  sea  is  a  difficult  mat- 
ter in  war-time;  I  'm  corked.  Friend  Censor  says 
I  can  write  from  "Somewhere  at  Sea,"  the  same 
as  "Somewhere  in  France"  later  on  —  but  all 
the  wonders  of  the  deep  are  a  closed  chapter. 
And  it  will  continue  so  in  France  —  that's  one 
of  the  nuisances  of  this  interfering  old  war. 

If  you  could  see  me  now  you  would  laugh  at 
me  sitting  here  with  a  life  preserver  with  an 
upstanding  flare  collar  much  like  the  ladies  of 

[  I  ] 


"'cJ^'K^r^Advebtur^s  in  Propaganda 

Elizabeth's  Court.  Everybody  has  a  sort  of 
Arctic  look  from  the  waist  up,  padded  and 
bulgy,  but  I  can  assure  you  it's  the  correct 
dress  for  dining,  strolling,  sleeping,  smoking, 
and  singing. 

We  tear  along  —  great  weather  until  to-day, 
and  this  is  surely  dirty  weather.  I  cannot  write 
about  our  leave-taking  of  American  waters  nor 
of  the  circumstances  so  far.  All 's  well  —  amaz- 
ingly well — for  all  except  a  porpoise  or  two 
and  a  whale  which  died  suddenly  en  route.  No 
scare,  and  the  subjects  of  conversation  are  but 
two  —  orders  and  submarines.  I  have  arrived 
at  a  working  mental  attitude  on  the  latter;  we 
won't  see  one  nor  be  touched,  but  we're  all 
entirely  ready.  I  have  seen  stars  overhead  as 
I  slept  on  deck  and  enjoyed  magnificent  sun- 
rises. 

A  deal  of  routine  eats  up  our  time,  and  brain- 
less matters  like  sleep,  meals,  drills,  consume 
the  days.  The  ship  at  night  rides  like  a  great 
ghost,  without  a  ray  of  light;  stairs  and  com- 
panions are  blind  dark,  with  here  and  there  an 
eerie  purplish  bulb  to  mark  corners,  but  giving 

[2] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

no  light.  In  a  sense  the  ship  is  loaded  with  U- 
boats;  especially  at  night  they  slide  under  tables 
and  scuttle  in  the  hold  and  swish  and  leer  at  the 
bulbs  which  are  scared  blue.  Our  attitude  is  one 
of  alert  indifference.  It's  no  place  for  pallid 
hearts,  but  it's  no  nightmare  for  stout  ones 
either.  At  unearthly  hours  gongs  sound,  feet 
rush  along  the  ringing  decks,  doors  are  pounded 
on,  and  voices  cry,  "Abandon  Ship  drill,"  just 
like  that  —  the  first  two  words  very  loud  and 
menacing,  the  last  almost  inaudible.  It  wakes 
one  up  —  I  will  say  —  and  we  feel  for  our  ac- 
coutrements and  yawn  and  scamper  to  our 
quarters  near  the  rafts. 

It's  odd  how  childish  and  unbelievable  cam- 
ouflage makes  the  war  seem.  It  makes  it  all  look 
like  the  insane  jest  of  the  feeble-minded  or 
a  kid's  toy.  Man's  war  playthings  —  childish, 
ridiculous! 

Finally,  the  convoying  destroyers  have  come, 
tearing  up  out  of  a  foggy,  rainy,  menacing 
deep  —  with  terrific  speed  and  bringing  great 
comfort,  but  still  looking  like  jokes  —  painted, 
restless  insects. 


II 

Paris,  July  2^,  1918 
Of  course  I  can't  talk  about  sighting  la  belle 
France  or  of  landing.  One  thing  we  had  rubbed 
into  us.  The  service  is  made  to  handle  masses  of 
men,  and  we  Propagandists  were  classed  as 
"  casuals."  There  was  no  provision  for  us  and 
we  had  the  devil  of  a  time  because  of  that. 

It  was  in  a  mighty  meeting-place  of  outland- 
ish shipping  that  we  debarked.  Interminable 
delays  marked  the  process  —  at  last  we  jumped 
ashore  in  France,  Finally  again  we  "casuals" 
were  formed  in  column  and  found  ourselves 
marching  through  streets,  through  open  country 
over  misty  hilltops  —  marching  into  France! 

That  was  unexpected  and  thrilling.  Here 
were  French  old  stone  houses  —  "boucherie," 
"epicerie,"  "buvette,"  "commerce  de  vins," 
and  the  like,  lettered  over  the  doors  and  little 
shops.  There  were  children  —  yes,  in  smocks 
—  sparkling-eyed,  —  the  boys  in  tight  short 
breeches,  the  girls  running  alongside  to  seize 

[4] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

our  hands  and  call  "monnee  —  thank  you  — 
good-bye  —  give  monnee."  There  were  widows, 
women  in  heavy  mourning.  There  were  soldiers, 
some  French,  many  American.  They  cheered  us 
—  some  merely  looked  at  us  with  cool,  apprais- 
ing eyes.  The  funniest  of  all  were  three  little 
girls  who  stood  hand  in  hand  and  sang  in  clear 
thin  voices  this  American  song: 

**  Hail,  hail,  the  gang 's  all  here, 
What-the-hell  do  we  care  now  "; 

which  set  the  whole  American  column  roaring 
with  laughter.  The  children  did  n't  know  the 
meaning  of  the  words,  but  let  me  tell  you  that 
their  elders'  attitude  is  a  lot  like  the  literal 
meaning  of  the  song.  I  don't  blame  them  much. 
It  fogged,  then  rained  as  we  marched.  There 
were  stragglers  and  my  camp-trained  men, 
Griscom  and  Ifft,  shouted  scornfully  at  the 
laggards,  who  were  soft  from  ship  lethargy. 
Merz  carried  the  pack  of  one  man  and  Ifft  a 
gun.  We  slogged  along  in  the  mud  and  dis- 
comfort calling  it  a  wonderful  experience,  but 
a  bit  boggled  in  mind  over  finding  ourselves 
route-marching  at  command  in  France.  In  open 

[5] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

country  we  would  pause,  then  forge  ahead 
rather  aimlessly.  In  dark  night  we  reached  a 
rest  camp. 

So  it  was  called.  It's  an  old  Napoleon-built 
barracks,  parade-ground,  and  camp.  We  fought 
around  and  finally  got  three  blankets  each,  some 
candles,  and  I  for  one  borrowed  a  drink  off  a 
sentry.  On  the  muggy  ground  we  stretched  out 
in  our  steamy  clothes  and  soggy  raincoats  and 
tried  to  sleep. 

Next  morning  Walter  and  I  finally  got  passes 
and  forced  our  way  out.  Then  in  the  town  we 
fought  red  tape  and  at  last  rescued  ourselves 
and  our  comrades  for  a  sleep  in  a  decent  hotel 
and  rose  early  for  the  long  and  perfectly  de- 
lightful trip  here. 

That  was  a  delight.  For  the  first  time  in 
months  I  knew  there  was  no  war.  I  was  abso- 
lutely back  in  peace-times,  had  no  earthly  sense 
of  any  war  anywhere.  The  reason  for  me  was 
plain.  It  was  a  powerful  hark-back  to  the  old 
tourist  days,  idle  sight-seeing  and  travel-cheer 
—  and  of  course  there  was  no  war.  We  passed 
American  soldiers  and  supplies,  but  they  were 
[6]. 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

scenic  episodes.  We  passed  Chartres  Cathedral. 
That  was  a  fitting  episode.  So  was  Versailles. 

Misgiving  began  at  the  Gare  Montparnasse. 
Paris  stretched  out  beneath  looked  all  right, 
but  there  were  no  taxis  crowding  'round  and  no 
hotel  'busses  as  in  the  old  days.  We  got  a  fiacre 
at  last;  the  cabby  said  the  horse  was  American, 
blesse  and  reforme  from  the  war.  So  we  got  to 
the  Hotel  Continental. 

When  we  went  out  it  was  dark.  Then  came 
the  shock.  The  city  of  light  was  black  and  de- 
serted and  whispery  and  menaced.  It  was 
ghastly.  We  strode  the  once  gay  boulevards 
appalled.  Thin  streams  of  passers-by,  the  great 
cafes  caves  of  darkness,  eerie  bluish-green  marker 
lights  in  the  black  streets  —  "  Paris  is  taken  by 
the  Germans,  the  Hun  has  got  us,"  we  said. 

We  passed  a  famous  Place;  in  two  places 
windows  and  cornices  were  shattered.  A  famous 
monument  in  the  centre  was  being  sandbagged 
and  cemented  over  for  protection.  It  was  shock- 
ing, blasting,  and  astonishing.  Coming  clap  on 
top  of  our  day  of  peace  it  gave  us  a  jolting  con- 
ception of  the  reach  of  war.  A  horrible  joke  on 

[7l 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

mankind  by  mankind  —  to  build  up  so  light- 
some a  city  and  then  blacken  it.  The  war  which 
was  still  out  of  sight  and  sound  seemed  close. 

A  great  surprise  befell  me  yesterday,  and  a 
greater  for  the  other  man.  I  was  hurrying 
through  the  court  of  the  Continental  at  noon 
when  among  the  American  officers  around  I 
noticed  one  reading  a  newspaper.  I  could  see 
only  the  upper  part  of  his  face,  but  I  knew  it  or 
thought  I  did.  He  lowered  his  paper.  It  was  he. 
I  let  out  a  shout  and  threw  out  a  hand.  He 
looked  entirely  doubtful,  then  realization  spread 
on  his  face  rather  slowly  and  he  said,  "I  did  n't 
know  you."  It  was  Marion.  [Captain  Blanken- 
horn's  brother,  a  captain  in  the  Medical  Corps 
who  had  been  with  a  British  Base  Hospital  for 
more  than  a  year.]  I  stumbled  over  him  just  like 
that.  I  thought  he  was  in  Rouen  and  he  thought 
I  was  in  America.  We  gave  over  the  afternoon 
to  each  other.  He  looks  the  same  as  when  he 
went,  very  fit,  more  experienced,  and  he  cer- 
tainly has  had  experiences!  Shells  are  an  old 
story  to  him.  He  is  stationed  here,  transferred 
to  the  A.E.F. 

[8  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

I  took  him  to  luncheon  and  to-night  he  took 
me  to  dinner  with  Christy,  his  pal.  We  walked 
down  to  Notre  Dame  together,  and  it  was  al- 
most like  another  peace  evening  and  almost  I 
had  some  one  to  make  sight-seeing  endurable 
again. 


Ill 

Paris,  July^i^  1918 
Some  of  my  meetings  to-day  were  queer.  I  met 
three  ex-reporters  of  the  Evening  Sun  within 
an  hour.  Walking  along  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  I  saw 
a  sergeant  of  a  medical  unit  who,  when  I  hailed 
him,  looked  at  me  goggle-eyed.  It  was  George 
Wood,  the  little  fellow,  you  recall,  who  used  to 
get  my  strike  stories  for  me.  He  looks  better 
than  ever  before  and  is  crazy  to  get  to  the  front 
from  his  rear  hospital,  which  he  avers  is  full  of 
young  slackers.  That 's  the  first  case  of  slacking 
I've  heard  of  in  the  A.E.F. 

Then  sitting  in  the  little  old  Cafe  des  Pyra- 
mides  at  dinner  I  spied  Mountsier.  He,  too, 
never  recognized  me  until  I  addressed  him.  The 
uniform  must  make  a  difference  in  my  looks. 
He  pointed  out  Paul  Scott  Mowrer,  a  friend  of 
BuUard's,  with  whom  I  immediately  fell  into 
intimate  talk.  It's  a  small  world.  It's  a  large 
war. 

We  had  just  returned  from  G.H.Q.  in  the 
[  10] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

unnamable  town  which  marks  the  end  of  our 
first  stage  [Chaumont].  There  we  put  ourselves 
on  the  map  most  successfully.  But  such  a  lot  of 
things  I  can't  talk  about.  One  thing  was  amus- 
ing. We  walked  up  to  the  place  from  the  hotel 
and  at  the  door  saw  an  imposing-looking  car 
with  four  stars  on  a  little  plate  behind.  Like 
kids  we  said,  "Oh,  let's  wait  a  minute."  Then 
we  edged  over  to  the  door  and  stepped  inside 
the  corridor.  We  pretended  to  read  the  G.O.'s 
posted  up.  There  were  military  steps  on  the 
stair  and  we  all  drew  up  in  line.  It  was  just  a 
smart  young  subaltern  aide.  We  relaxed.  Then 
more  steps,  and  down  the  stairs  strode  The 
Man  [General  Pershing].  We  whipped  to  salute 
and  as  he  went  by  he  saluted  and  said,  "Good 
afternoon,  gentlemen."  He  looked  the  very 
beau-ideal  of  a  soldier.  Very  nice  of  him  to 
receive  us  so! 

We  made  good  friends  at  the  officers'  club, 
among  them  "F.P.A.,"  and  between  them  and 
busy  conferences  spent  jolly  hours  tramping 
the  town  which  is  French  tout  entier  and  quite 
picturesque.  Below  us  we  saw  the  Marne,  and 

[II  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

the  streets  are  new-named  —  "Rue  du  De- 
fense Herolque  de  Verdun! "  etc.  We  came  back 
thrilled  by  the  stories  we  had  heard  of  what 
the  Americans  did  in  the  last  offensive.  It  is 
still  quite  unbelievable  to  me.  "The  Americans 
saved  Paris.  It  was  the  American  divisions  who 
stood  against  Germany's  best  when  the  French 
best,  worn  out,  fell  back.  The  American  divi- 
sions are  the  best  on  either  side  of  the  line, 
the  best  in  the  world."  Such  stuff  said  in  Foch's 
headquarters  is  astounding.  Soldiers  who  have 
seen  say  that  there  is  no  army  like  ours,  no  such 
fanatical  fighting  men  anywhere.  That  an  al- 
most religious  passion  is  all  through  our  armies, 
and  that  the  Boche  has  had  his  morale  badly 
shaken.  Marion,  who  talked  with  wounded  Aus- 
tralians, said  that  they  complained  that  "the 
Yanks  were  too  bloody  —  treated  the  Boche 
too  rough.  They,  the  Aussies,  would  n't  go  fight- 
ing with  them  again  —  they  were  too  fierce." 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  a  surprising  rise 
in  French  morale  has  resulted  from  the  com- 
muniques of  July  4  and  July  14.  "Now  we  can- 
not lose/'  is  their  talk. 


IV 

Paris,  August  2,  191 8 
A  BUSY  day,  then  hungry  to  a  really  good  din- 
ner, then  out  into  the  Tuileries  Gardens.  And 
like  a  stone  thrown  at  me  the  lack  of  you  struck 
home. 

It  was  all  so  fair  —  a  rolling,  tossing  sky  of 
rain-clouds,  the  evening  sun  making  the  heavens 
dramatic,  the  mighty  Louvre  shot  with  lights 
and  shadows.  Napoleon's  Arch,  the  long,  formal 
gardens  quaint  with  yellow  daisies,  homey  ge- 
raniums, dahlias,  hollyhocks  even,  and  all  the 
old-fashioned  posies  inside  the  stiff  rows  of  box. 
At  one  side  a  monument  sandbagged  up  to  re- 
mind of  the  war,  and  over  all  a  growing,  glo- 
rious, peaceful  evening  rainbow.  Back  in  the 
other  direction  the  obelisk  of  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde  and  the  huge  elephant  of  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe  and  close  by  a  joyous  nude  nymph 
silhouetted  against  the  sunset.  What  the  hell 
was  the  delight  of  any  of  it!  I  was  so  lonesome. 

[  13  ] 


V 

Officers*  Inn,  St.  Jameses  Place, 

London,  August  5, 191 8 
In  the  biggest  city,  after  a  memorable  cross- 
ing —  memorable  personally,  for  nothing  hap- 
pened to  put  the  crossing  on  the  red  books  of 
the  Navy.  In  two  days  we  were  in  three  capitals, 
French,  Belgian,  and  British.  At  the  second  we 
had  a  magnificent  talk  with  Brand  Whitlock, 
and  since  here  have  talked  with  Graham  Wallas 
and  Alfred  Zimmern  and  will  see  and  confer 
with  many  interesting  men.  Have  already  run 
across  some  newspaper  friends. 

We  moved  to-day  from  the  Savoy  and  its  ex- 
pensiveness  and  bad  service  to  this  Officers'  Inn 
and  its  quaint  comfort.  In  the  centre  of  a  little 
old  London  park  they  have  built  a  sort  of  Adi- 
rondacks  lodge-hotel  with  a  big  dining-room, 
big  airy  reception-room,  big  writing-room,  and 
radiating  wings  full  of  tiny  bedrooms,  or  cubi- 
cles, as  they  call  them.  A  little  garden  court 
is  left  in  the  centre,  in  the  bull's-eye  of  which  is 

[  14] 


KIND  WARNINGS  FROM  THK  ENEMY! 

German  Propaganda  Newspaper  published  in  Frankfort  for  circulation 
among  the  A  E.  F. 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

an  old  statue  of  William  the  Second  on  a  horse. 
It  looks  like  a  paddock. 

To-day  we  invaded  the  War  Office;  met  Lord 
Milner,  the  Secretary  for  War,  who  asked  us  to 
apply  to  him  personally  if  we  should  find  ob- 
structions in  the  way  of  getting  everything  we 
wanted !  Merz  has  been  working  out  at  Graham 
Wallas's  home  in  Highgate  where  Walter  took 
us  for  the  mellow-ripe  humanity  of  that  really 
great  young-old  man.  To-morrow  we  meet 
Northcliffe  and  the  day  after  Lord  Beaver- 
brook.  Wickham  Steed,  Seton-Watson,  and 
H.  G.  Wells  are  among  the  men  we  shall  see, 
and  probably  Henderson. 

London  is  the  place  to  work  in.  Paris  is  a 
show,  but  here  the  air  is  like  New  York  and  one 
digs  in.  The  town  is  full  of  Australian  and  Cana- 
dian soldiers,  on  leave  —  very  few  Americans. 
Everywhere  are  men  in  the  blue  uniform  with 
the  red  tie  of  the  great  British  War  Hospitals 
—  patients  getting  over  "  a  blighty  one."  But 
the  most  striking  thing  is  the  women.  France 
is  full  of  women  wearing  black.  England  has 
none,  London  instead  is  full  of  women  in  uni- 

[IS] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 


forms  — "W.A.A.CS,"  "Wrens,"  "V.A.D.'s," 
and  scores  of  kinds  of  munition  and  war-service 
uniforms.  Columns  of  "land  women,"  girls  in 
breeches,  leggings,  coats,  and  felt  hats,  stride 
through  the  streets,  marching  orderly  to  sta- 
tions for  outbound  trains.  They  look  strong, 
efficient,  dumpy,  busy,  and  as  if  they  had  been 
at  it  for  years.  They  will  never  go  back  to  skirts 
and  tatting,  one  is  sure.  They  give  the  city  a 
sense  of  war  determination  and  organization. 
These  girls  mean  business. 
.  "America"  is  the  great  word  here  now.  The 
past  three  weeks  have  worked  the  same  aston- 
ishing revolution  here  as  in  France  —  the  great 
news  of  our  fighting  qualities  and  strength. 
Suddenly  America,  from  being  almost  a  dis- 
appointing myth,  has  become  the  dominant 
thing  in  the  war.  France  is  hysterically  happy 
over  us  just  now,  but  more  thoughtful  England 
is  looking  at  us  with  deep  questioning. 

As  we  started  for  England  we  saw  what  gave 
us  all  a  shock  —  a  great  batch  of  new  German 
and  Austrian  prisoners.  Pretty  fit  men,  not 
very  bright  —  just  average,  very  human,  well- 

[  i6] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

equipped,  well-fed,  good  fighters.  The  Enemy 
—  strong,  numerous,  alive  —  that's  what  we 
saw  close  up.  The  war  seemed  to  lengthen  out 
as  we  looked  at  them.  Beside  them  passed  a 
train,  a  long,  long  train  of  British  wounded. 
There  were  more  faces  of  intelligence  in  the 
train  than  among  the  prisoners.  The  wounded 
looked  on  the  Germans  without  animosity,  ex- 
cept for  two  or  three  bitter  stares,  and  the 
prisoners  looked  back  with  apathy. 

It  will  take  us  at  least  two  weeks  more  here. 
And  suddenly  it  is  very  prideful  to  be  an  Amer- 
ican in  London  to-day. 


VI 

London^  August  ii,  1918 
Four  weeks  today  since  you  waved  me  off 
to  the  war!  It  seems  like  four  months,  so 
crowded  have  the  days  been.  Places,  men, 
events,  problems  —  they  step  on  each  other's 
toes,  so  that  it's  hard  to  keep  the  procession 
straightened  out.  A  bigger  week  than  all  opens 
before  us  with  the  honor  of  America  to  main- 
tain, and  so  far  in  our  job  no  great  achieve- 
ments to  maintain  it  on.  So  since  last  night  we 
gave  ourselves  a  holiday. 

We  went  to  Highgate,  to  Graham  Wallas 
again,  just  for  a  chat.  Wallas  is  one  of  the  truly 
great  men  of  our  time,  and  how  you  would 
enjoy  his  rich  mind  and  the  young  wit  that 
bubbles  inside  his  old  gray  head.  And  Mrs. 
Wallas,  telling  of  French  and  Belgian  refugees 
in  the  early  months  of  the  war  in  her  house; 
the  difficulties  of  being  ministering  angels,  and 
especially  British  angels,  to  such  fleeing  ones 
as  a  French  girl  of  eleven,  with  a  "  soul "  and  a 

[  18] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

critical  tongue,  and  a  Belgian  poet  who  kept  a 
cigarette  in  his  face  while  he  washed  'round  it, 
and  of  Belgian  girls  housed  together  in  an  es- 
tablishment with  their  parish  priest,  and  who 
complained  that  there  was  so  little  for  them  to 
do  that  there  was  n't  even  anything  left  for 
confessional:  "The  father  saw  all  their  little 
sins  before  they  could  confess  them,  and  as  for 
the  mortal  sins,  there  was  no  opportunity,"  etc. 

Then  we  took  a  'bus  for  two  hours  all  across 
North  London,  through  Kentish  Town  and 
Paddington  and  Chiswick  and  past  Kew  Gar- 
dens and  Richmond  to  Twickenham,  where  we 
walked  by  Pope's  Villa,  or  what 's  left  of  it, 
and  on  to  Hampton  Court  and  spent  the  after- 
noon in  the  palace  and  gardens.  Only  the  very 
greatest  Italian  palace  gardens  rival  Hampton 
Court.  Cardinal  Wolsey  started  it  and  Henry 
the  Eighth  added  to  it  for  Anne  Boleyn's  sake, 
and  Mary  and  WiUiam  built  more,  until  the 
place  is  magnificent.  It  is  brick,  old  red  brick 
and  stone,  and  it  has  color!  Lord,  but  the  color 
of  it! 

How  you  would  have  enjoyed  it,  and  how  I 

[19] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

would  have  if  you  had  been  along!  Charles  is 
no  substitute  for  you,  My  Girl;  he  wants  to  buy 
"Guides"  and  "do"  every  stick  and  stone. 
You  and  I  want  to  loaf  through  and  read  it  up 
afterwards.  It  has  such  color!  The  sun  does 
wonderful  things  to  the  brick  and  terra-cotta, 
and  the  fountains  play  in  the  stately  courts 
and  the  great  avenues  of  trees  radiate  away, 
and  the  posy  beds !  Along  the  east  front  of  the 
palace  there  is  a  flower-bed  a  half-mile  long 
and  it's  filled  with  all  the  old  simple  posies, 
phlox,  and  daisies,  and  roses.  Great  lawns 
stretch  away,  and  in  their  borders  I  saw  the 
funniest  thing  I've  seen  in  warring  Britain. 
Scattered  about  in  that  spacious  wastefulness 
are  flower-beds  which  have  been  planted  for 
food.  Green  beds  of  potatoes,  red  beds  of 
beets,  all  nicely  bordered  and  tended.  They 
don't  look  half  bad,  but  think  of  Anne  Boleyn 
gardening  for  food  when  Merrie  England  hap- 
pened to  be  at  war! 

Had  you  been   there,  we  would  not  have 
wasted  much  time  on  the  miles  of  royal  portraits 
and  the  allegorical  tapestries,  though  some  of 
f  20  1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

the  latter  are  stunning.  You  and  I  would  have 
loafed  through  the  arcades  and  stretched  out 
on  the  grass  where  we  could  watch  the  sun  gild 
the  brick  redder  still,  and  joshed  the  green  old 
marble  fawns  and  argued  over  whether  you 
could  steal  the  posies.  The  Thames  flows  by  the 
palace  —  not  much  of  a  river,  but  to-day  it  was 
as  busy  as  Broadway  at  Forty-second  Street, 
with  boatings.  Big  river  launches,  long,  slim 
four-oared  shells,  punts,  houseboats,  tiny  row- 
boats,  like  half  a  bathtub,  and  every  sort  of 
Britisher  and  Britishess  aboard — dowagers 
with  parasols,  and  young  officers  in  flannel 
trousers  and  khaki  uniform  blouses.  Beside  the 
river  I  found  a  hotel  with  a  veranda  command- 
ing the  palace  where  I  ate  alone,  as  Charles 
wanted  to  rush  back  and  dine  in  town. 

So  it's  been  a  real  rest  day.  It  began  last 
night  when  we  went  off  suddenly  to  see  Barrie's 
new  "Dear  Brutus,"  which  is  the  charmingest 
of  fantasies  and  abolishes  the  war  absolutely 
for  two  hours.  We  'd  had  a  long  and  busy  day 
of  most  important  and  successful  conferences. 
America  is  fast  becoming  the  greatest  factor  of 

[21    ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

power  in  the  war,  and  the  world  —  and  espe- 
cially Englishmen  —  are  doing  a  deal  of  talk- 
ing these  days  about  the  League  of  Nations, 
meaning  thereby  a  union  of  Anglo-Saxon 
peoples  chiefly. 

This  city  might  be  a  world  away  from  the 
war  —  if  there  were  not  so  many  soldiers  about 
and  war  hospitals  and  throngs  of  uniformed 
women  and  observation  balloons  and  planes 
and  searchlights.  There's  no  danger  here  and 
the  war  still  stays  far  from  me,  disappointingly 
hid  away  in  the  trenches.  We  are  in  no  danger 
and  shall  be  in  none. 


VII 

London,  August  i6,  191 8 
We  have  had  the  most  splendiferous  times 
this  week.  We  are  quite  blase  from  meeting 
bigwigs.  The  information  we  wanted  we've 
gotten  freely  from  the  founts  on  the  top  of 
Parnassus.  Much  business  here  is  transacted  at 
dinners  and  luncheons.  We're  going  to  it  like 
those  to  the  manor  born.  State  secrets  between 
glasses  of  Graves,  that's  the  method.  But  this 
manner  of  working  makes  a  day  of  from  9  a.m. 
to  1 1  P.M.  By  the  time  you  get  this  we  shall  be 
back  in  France.  Then  we  shall  go  on. 

Northcliffe  gave  a  luncheon  to-day  to  the 
overseas  journalists  visiting  England.  It  was  a 
unique  aifair  under  a  marquee  in  ancient  Print- 
ing House  Square.  If  you'll  consult  the  card 
herewith  you'll  see  what  notabilities  were 
present  besides  those  you  sent.  Three  sheriffs 
and  ex-sheriffs  in  marvellous  robes  were  in  the 
receiving  line.  Our  names  were  yodled  out  by 
[23  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

announcers  in  a  way  to  make  us  straighten  up 
very  stiff  and  feel  damn  foolish.  It  was  a  heady 
affair.  My  Lord  Northcliffe  was  very  glad  to  see 
us  and  knew  us  by  name,  —  eh,  what!  Mar- 
vellous! Just  a  simple  war-time  repast  with 
five  kinds  of  wine-glasses  and  sixteen  eating- 
instruments  (I  counted  'em)  beside  each  plate. 
Then,  too,  it  was  our  first  experience  with  the 
British  toastmaster.  The  toastmaster  here  is  a 
most  miraculously  fool  institution.  He  stood 
behind  Lord  Northcliffe  and  in  a  clear  tenor 
voice  he  would  sing  out: 

"My  Lord  Sheriff  and  gentlemen,  My  Lord 
begs  you  to  be  seated." 

So  we  sat  down.  Later  he  yodled  something 
like  this: 

"My  Lord  Sheriff  and  gentlemen.  My  Lord 
prays  silence  for  My  Lord's  welcome  to  his 
guests." 

And  after  N.'s  speech  the  marvel  calls:    • 

"My  Lord,  My  Lord  Sheriff  and  gentlemen, 
the  toast  is  to  the  King.  Pray  have  your  glasses 
changed." 

And  after  the  toast  the  nuisance  sang  again: 

[24l 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

"My  Lord  Sheriff  and  gentlemen,  My  Lord 
says  you  may  smoke." 

The  "Institushun,"  you  see,  was  just  a  kind 
of  his-master's-voice  gramophone.  He  directed 
all  our  ways.  I  expected  him  to  chant  which 
forks  to  use  at  each  course.  By  the  way,  some 
of  us  ignoramuses  had  begun  smoking  before 
the  announcer's  gracious  permission,  which  was 
an  awful  faux  pas  as  no  one  in  England  ever, 
ever  smokes  before  the  King's  toast  is  toasted. 
Now  I  did  n't  know  that.  My  education  was 
neglected,  and  alas,  all  England  now  knows 
how  ignorant  I  am. 

To  continue  my  snobbery  vein,  Balfour,  Lord 
Cecil,  and  others  were  at  lunch  the  other  day, 
and  Northcliffe  and  Reading  are  coming  to  din- 
ner with  us.  All  for  the  "Entente  Cordiale." 
Walter  dined  in  one  comer  of  the  Reform  Club 
the  other  night  with  H.  G.  Wells,  while  Charles 
and  I  dined  across  the  room  with  Seton-Watson 
and  Borgesi.  The  latter  is  extremely  interesting. 
Charles's  little  task  is  taking  him  into  confer- 
ences with  the  highest  personages  in  Bob 
Bruere's  line  of  work  over  here.  Meanwhile  our 
[25  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

work  goes  on  with  speed  —  ask  our  tired  ste- 
nographers —  and  our  main  troubles  are  with 
communications.  Not  merely  no  letter  from  you 
yet,  but  no  word  from  G.H.Q. 

If  you  were  here  now  you  could  have  the 
most  interesting  study  in  the  world  —  British 
women  in  the  war.  Astounding  transformations 
are  at  work.  Everywhere  are  sturdy  women  in 
uniforms,  strong  girls  in  breeches  and  leggings, 
always  with  the  neat  but  somewhat  foolish- 
looking  English  workman's  "linen  duster" 
coat;  young  girls  in  short  skirts  driving  motor- 
cycles, delivery  carts,  etc.  And  they  act  the 
same  as  the  men,  go  where  they  please  alone, 
go  on  strike  when  they  please,  alone.  They 
smoke  freely  in  restaurants,  tea-rooms,  the- 
atres, and  parks.  Nobody  stares  at  a  respect- 
able, hard-working  girl  puffing  on  benches  in  a 
square  or  at  a  middle-aged  woman  smoking  in  a 
theatre  box.  And  they  will  never  go  back  to  the 
gilded  cages  or  the  cellar  kitchens.  Three  hun- 
dred and  fifty  W.A.A.C.'s  will  shortly  visit  in 
the  United  States.  You  will  envy  them.  And 
you  could  do  so  much  studying  them  here — 
[26] 


i 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

but  don't  you  try  coming  through  any  subma- 
rine zones. 

If  it  were  n't  for  missing  you  and  the  eternal 
shadow  of  war  I  could  count  myself  most  happy. 
I  'm  meeting  great  ones,  have  a  part  in  a  great 
work,  which  is  going  splendidly,  and  am  ab- 
solutely well.  But  for  any  kind  of  solid  enjoy- 
ment what  a  mockery  it  all  is. 

But  you  will  be  wanting  to  "see"  me  at  my 
daily  doings.  I'm  up  at  eight.  I  jump  into  the 
slippers  you  made  me  take,  God  bless  you,  and 
patter  off  to  the  big  room  where  I  find  a 
dozen  naked  officers  splashing  under  the  shower 
baths.  My!  how  good  the  showers  are,  after 
Paris  with  its  cold-water  tubs  and  not  a  drop 
of  hot  water  there  except  Saturday  and  Sunday. 
Here  the  showers  are  everything  a  shower 
should  be.  Shave  and  dress,  reclaiming  my 
boots  and  belt  from  the  hall  where  they've 
been  shined  overnight,  and  then  to  breakfast 
in  the  cheery  tile-floored  dining-room  where  My 
Lady  This  and  Countess  That,  in  neat  cheap 
blue  uniforms  serve  a  most  scrumptious  break- 
fast of  cereal,  coffee,  buns,  and  an  egg  —  all  for 

[27  1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

one  and  six,  which  means  thirty-six  cents.  Food 
is  plentiful,  though  you  must  ask  for  more  than 
one  piece  of  the  little  chunks  of  brown  bread  if 
you  want  it,  and  to  ask  for  three  would  be  re- 
garded with  sorrow.  There's  no  sugar  for  the 
porridge,  but  there's  a  pitcher  of  brown  syrup 
instead  which  I  Ve  grown  to  prefer. 

This  being  a  Red  Cross  hotel  all  the  help  are 
gentlewomen  and  gentle  —  and  damn-pretty 
— girls.  It's  "Lady  Jones,  you've  been  short- 
changed"; or,  "Lady  Gwendolyn,  your  table 
is  not  cleared  yet";  or,  "Your  Grace,  I  think 
that  officer  wants  you."  As  service,  it's  bum. 
As  a  novelty,  it's  fine.  And  on  Saturday  nights 
my  young  officers  dance  with  the  waitresses, 
who  put  ropes  of  pearls  on  over  their  blue  ging- 
ham uniforms  and  diamond  pins  in  their  cheese- 
cloth head-dresses. 

Among  the  English  officers  here  are  a  surpris- 
ing number  of  game-legged  men,  still  in  active 
service,  mostly  Royal  Air  Force.  A  young  chap 
in  a  United  States  uniform  handed  me  a  pack- 
age of  extra  buttons,  saying,  "  I  won't  use  'em." 
He  was  just  changing  into  English  uniform.  He 
[28  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

was  joining  the  flyers.  I  asked  him  why  he  did 
not  join  the  American  air  service.  He  said, 
"They  wouldn't  take  me.  You  see,  I've  got 
an  artificial  leg."  That  tells  a  story,  let  me  add. 
We  have  to  fly  'round  a  good  bit  in  taxis  or  in 
army  or  British  official  cars,  but  as  much  as  I 
can  I  walk  between  confabs.  We're  in  the  very 
heart  of  London  clubdom.  St.  James's  Square 
is  between  Pall  Mall  and  Piccadilly  and  be- 
tween Regent  Street  and  St.  James's  Palace. 
So  that  at  least  thirty  famous  clubs  are  all 
about,  beginning  with  the  Reform,  the  Carlton, 
the  Thatched  House,  and  on  to  the  Military 
and  Naval,  the  Sevile,  Arts,  etc.,  etc.  The  Duke 
of  Devonshire's  town  house  looks  down  on  the 
Square,  and  No.  lo  opposite  is  the  modest 
brick  dwelling  where  Pitt,  Derby,  and  Glad- 
stone lived.  Britain's  famously  ugly  war  monu- 
ments of  Crimean  and  Napoleonic  wars  are 
scattered  near  by  and  in  two  steps  I  can  reach 
the  Mall  with  the  Admiralty  Arch  at  one  end 
and  Buckingham  Palace  at  the  other.  I  walk 
there  in  the  evenings  while  the  searchlights 
tear  holes  in  the  clouds  overhead. 


VIII 

Officers'  Inn,  London, 

August  i8,  1918 
The  park  today  was  full  of  soldiers  on  leave, 
many  sitting  on  the  grass  with  their  arms  locked 
about  girls.  One  automatically  puts  these  rather 
free  exhibitions  alongside  the  common  stories 
in  the  papers  headed  "Soldier's  Wife  Hearing 
Husband  is  Coming  Home  Commits  Suicide." 
A  good  many  W.A.A.C.'s  and  land-women 
have  soldiers'  heads  in  their  laps.  But  for  all 
that  the  record  of  the  W.A.A.C.'s  in  France 
has  recently  been  proved  to  be  unbelievably 
"moral."  One  feels  that  these  leggy,  shoulderly 
land-women  are  using  their  new  freedom  to 
work  and  not  to  go  on  a  war-loose.  They  are 
not  called  "landladies"  in  all  the  placards  for 
nothing.  They  cross  their  legs  so  publicly  and 
smoke  where  they  please  and  have  such  a  free 
look  under  their  khaki  felt  hats;  they  are  al- 
together such  a  revelation  of  strong  animalism 
in  womanhood,  that  I  wondered  whether  a 

[30] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

correspondingly  untrammelled  sex  life  was  n't 
characteristic  of  their  new  existence.  Appar- 
ently the  contrary  is  the  really  true  and  sur- 
prising fact.  They  are  still  British  girls.  The 
loosening  effects  of  war  are  secondary. 

Three  thousand  bus  and  tram  conductorettes 
pulled  off  a  lightning  strike  last  night  and  to- 
day for  five  shillings  war  bonus  to  bring  their 
pay  up  to  the  men's  scale.  They  will  probably 
get  it.  The  workers  get  about  what  they  want. 
With  the  United  States  man  power  in  the  war 
Britain  is  nervous  only  about  one  thing  —  coal 
—  and  if  the  miners  demand  the  Stockholm 
conference  they  will  probably  get  it.  How  you 
and  I  would  enjoy  studying  all  this  here  to- 
gether. The  thing  is  only  going  to  get  bigger 
after  the  war  and  the  really  great  study  is 
coming  then. 


4 


IX 

August  21,  1918 
Major  Griscom,  my  lieutenant's  uncle  over 
here,  offered  us  his  house  for  a  dinner  to  the 
Britishers  who  have  been  so  nice  to  us.  Un- 
fortunately we  asked  a  varied  group,  causing 
much  trouble  to  the  hosts.  Major  Griscom  and 
his  nephew  spent  one  whole  day  running  'round 
trying  to  find  out  the  order  of  precedence  for 
seating  their  guests.  Here  were  the  vital  prob- 
lems: I.  Does  a  duke  who  is  only  a  naval  com- 
mander rank  a  commoner  who  is  a  general? 
2.  Does  a  viscount  who  was  a  commoner  rank 
a  duke  and  the  brother  of  an  earl.f*  God  knows 
who  settled  these  things,  but  this  is  how  it 
ended  up  (see  diagram  opposite). 

Looks  simple,  does  n't  it.f^  There's  a  day's 
sweat  in  it!  I  tell  you  if  they  had  not  correctly 
seated  me  as  number  five  at  that  table  I'd 
never  have  come  back  to  the  house  again! 

Really  it  was  a  serious  matter.  I  did  n't  know 
anything  about  the  trouble  and  had  a  damn 
[  32] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 


Captain  Blanken- 
horn 


Lord  Eustace  Percy 
of  the  F.O. 


J.  A.  Guest  of 
Crewe  House 


Lieutenant-Colonel 
Sir  Campbell 
Stuart 


Lieutenant  Griscom 
Duke  of  Sutherland 


O 

(L) 

O 


I 

s 

2 

9 

6 

13 

10 

12 

H 

8 

II 

4 

7 

3 

_ 

Viscount  NorthclifFe 


Captain  Lippmann 


H.  Wickham  Steed 


Dr.  Seton-Watson 


Colonel  Granville 
Baker 

Lieutenant  Merz 


a 
8 

o 


I 

o 

.o    . 


[  33 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

good  time.  Reading  is  lean,  keen,  entirely  a 
diplomat;  Northcliife,  forceful  and  powerful; 
the  Duke  of  Sutherland,  a  most  handsome 
young  chap,  with  no  necessity  for  proving 
whether  he  has  brains  or  not;  General  Cock- 
erel!, an  old  man,  but  the  handsomest  soldier  I 
ever  saw,  complete  gentleman.  Christian  officer, 
and  boyishly  human;  Sir  Campbell  Stuart,  a 
Scotch  squirrel  from  Canada;  Lord  Eustace 
you  know  —  he  has  a  bad  trick  of  knitting  his 
brow  so  that  he  spoils  his  Thackerayan  profile, 
but  he  is  extremely  interesting — a  Tory  of 
Tories  in  the  most  Tory  of  offices  who  never- 
theless has  an  intellectual  grasp  of  Liberalism, 
almost  of  Radicalism;  Wickham  Steed,  the 
accomplished,  unofficial  diplomat;  Watson,  a 
doctrinaire. 

What  do  you  think  was  more  talked  of  than 
the  war  by  that  group?  The  British  Labor 
Party!  High  politics,  fearfully  secret  stuff  of 
the  Foreign  Office,  was  buzzed  around,  but  the 
really  interesting  thing  was  the  cool  estimate  of 
two  things,  both  well  known  and  yet  unknown 
—  or  rather  the  attempt  to  estimate  coolly  two 

[34] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

things  —  America  in  the  war  and  what  she  was 
going  to  do;  and  the  British  Labor  Party. 

Merz  just  tells  me  that  the  first  alarm  for  an 
air  raid  has  been  sounded.  They 've  been  sighted 
crossing  the  Channel  and  we'll  have  to  wait  an 
hour  or  so  to  see  what  happens.  It's  now  eleven 
o'clock.  This  is  the  first  of  the  kind  we've 
met. 

Really,  the  war  is  just  as  far  away  from  us 
here  as  in  Washington.  There's  only  this  dif- 
ference; America  has  gone  so  hell-bent  to  war 
that  it's  quit  thinking;  over  here  they've  been 
through  that  stage  and  are  thinking.  The  best 
thinking  in  the  world  is  English  thinking  just 
now.  "Reconstruction"  is  no  taboo  word  here. 
I  hope  America  will  run  the  fever  course  with 
speed  corresponding  to  its  violence  and  by 
winter  will  be  thinking  again.  That  will  be  the 
President's  job. 

How  you  would  relish  the  strike  of  the  women 
transport  workers  now  suddenly  threatening  to 
become  nation-wide.  I  '11  enclose  some  clippings. 
Lord!  I  wish  you  were  here  to  study  it.  It  is 
wondrous ! 

[35  1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

Well,  that  raid  does  n't  seem  to  be  material- 
izing. I  suppose  there  are  lots  of  machines  up, 
but  I  could  n't  hear  the  faintest  buzz  outside 
just  now. 


X 

General  Headquarters,  A.E.F., 
August  28, 1918 
Saturday  at  British  Headquarters  after  a 
quick  crossing  from  England.  Not  so  long  and 
strenuous  as  the  one  over  the  other  way,  and 
the  kindly  British  officers  took  us  up  to  the 
front  to  see  how  they  handled  propaganda.  It 
was  a  glorious  day  and  that  afternoon  and  even- 
ing we  motored  about  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  miles.  We  went  In  search  of  war.  How  does 
war  look  as  you  approach  it?  It's  very  simple. 
It's  very  peaceful. 

As  we  drove  farther  east  the  roads  became 
more  populous.  We  passed  dumps,  stores, 
camps,  trenches  of  last  defense.  The  lorries  on 
the  road  became  more  frequent.  We  made  a 
detour  In  one  town  to  see  where  bombs  and 
long-distance  shells  had  smashed  a  number  of 
houses.  Farther  on  we  passed  Red  Cross  ambu- 
lances. There  were  wounded  Inside.  Then  we 
came  on  troops.  Then  more  troops  of  all  kinds 

[37] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

— going  forward.  Guns  were  going  up,  too,  and 
our  car  was  crowded  to  the  ditch.  "By  Jove," 
said  our  guide,  "there's  a  bit  of  something  on." 

We  began  to  scan  the  horizon.  "That  tower 
over  there  is  all  that 's  left  of  St. , "  Cap- 
tain H.  remarked  finally.  "That  ridge  there  is  in 
Boche  land,"  he  added.  It  all  looked  inexpress- 
ibly peaceful. 

"  Smoke  over  there,"  said  I.  "  Is  that  a  shell } " 
He  thought  it  might  be.  We  stopped  and  raked 
the  hori2^on  with  glasses.  We  picked  up  a  pale 
low  moon  of  an  object  —  a  Boche  observation 
balloon.  Plenty  of  British  sausages  were  visible 
to  the  naked  eye.  We  drove  on. 

It  was  all  just  as  peaceful  as  ever.  Occasion- 
ally a  smoke  or  two  became  plainly  defined  as 
a  shell.  I  can't  remember  when  we  definitely 
heard  the  first  gun.  But  a  consciousness  of 
"Krump  —  krumping"  a  few  miles  away  be- 
gan to  grow  on  us. 

We  turned  oif  the  crowded,  pushing,  jangling 
highroad  and  soon  looked  down  on  white  Arras. 
Then  a  great  lone,  contented,  peaceful  gun  a 
half-mile  off  said  "Blamp"  with  a  flash  and  a 

[38] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

great  flare  of  coppery  smoke.  It  kept  saying 
"Blamp"  down  there  at  intervals  all  afternoon. 
It  felt  neighborly  to  have  it  out  there  in  the 
valley  while  peaceful  airplanes  sailed  overhead 
and  sausages  soberly  floated  three  miles  off. 
Farther  off  a  few  batteries  rumbled  occasion- 
ally. In  the  pleasantest  sunlight  we  peacefully 
studied  the  sky  and  earth  and  idly  speculated 
on  the  thin  white  scratches  which  were  Boche 
trenches.  It  was  all  peaceful. 

So  that  was  war.  We  were  told  that  hot  fight- 
ing was  going  on  just  over  there  —  about  ten 
kilometres  off  —  and,  yes,  this  spot  where  we 
stood  had  been  shelled  a  bit  recently  —  for  no 
reason  at  all. 

We  started  back  to  take  a  peep  at  Arras. 
"Pshaw!  it  may  get  stinky  down  there,"  re- 
marked our  guide  irritably,  for  just  then  a 
"woolly  bear"  burst  over  white  Arras  a  few 
kilos  down  the  road.  It  was  shrapnel  and  the 
black  little  smoke-cloud  peacefully  floated  off. 
After  a  while  another — "They're  after  the 
square,  I  suppose,"  said  Captain  H.,  but  we 
piled  into  the  car.  In  five  minutes  we  entered 

[39] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

the  streets  of  that  great  shocked,  ripped-up, 
utterly  deserted  city  that  Is  now  white  Arras. 
Not  a  soul  lives  in  it — except  an  evanescent 
remnant.  The  houses  are  there,  but  they  are 
uninhabitable.  The  city  is  white  —  white,  torn, 
plastery  walls  show  everywhere.  Arras  is  white 
with  terror,  and  with  having  been  bled.  At  the 
town  entrance  a  billboard  in  excellent  English 
said:  "Steel  helmets  must  be  worn  beyond  this 

point.  By  order  of . "  Our  guide  remarked 

that  we'd  be  sure  to  meet  somebody  and  there'd 
be  a  beastly  row.  Our  driver  would  race  through 
the  streets,  and  we  had  to  look  sharp  and  specu- 
lated fleetingly  whether  one  square  or  another 
that  we  passed  were  the  square  those  woolly 
bears  were  feeling  for,  and  rather  awed  we 
glanced  at  the  splinteration  everywhere  and 
the  occasional  complete  demolition  of  some 
building,  and  soon  we  were  leaving  Arras.  We 
had  just  passed  the  gate  when  the  sky  quite 
near  by  said  "Crack,"  clearly  and  interrupt- 
ingly,  and  there,  up  a  bit  and  over  our  shoul- 
ders, floated  the  black  woolly  bear  of  that 
methodical  shrapnel  gunner  —  about  four  hun- 

l4o] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

dred  yards  off.  It  had  no  relation  to  us.  It  was 
just  as  peaceful  as  the  rest  of  the  war.  It  meant 
nothing.  It  could  n't  help  itself  —  just  like  the 
rest  of  the  war. 

Our  souls  were  numbed  by  Arras  —  we  were 
too  struck  by  Arras  to  give  more  than  a  mo- 
ment to  that  "crack"  overhead.  White  Arras 
is  an  appalled  city.  It's  not  peaceful  like  the 
war. 

As  we  messed  some  kilos  away  in  a  jolly 
French  billet,  where  the  cook  had  stuck  an 
American  flag  in  the  posy  centre-piece  in  our 
honor,  chatting  with  our  officer  allies  I  kept 
vaguely  thinking,  "  So  this  is  the  war,"  and  the 
only  word  to  describe  it  was  "peaceful." 

In  the  dark  we  began  motoring  home  and 
just  a  few  kilometres  away  from search- 
lights sprang  up  from  the  hills  and  raked  the 
sky.  Then  distant  crashings  began.  "Pull  up," 

said  our  companion.  "Raid  on  St.  ,  I'm 

afraid.  It  may  get  stinky  down  there." 

More  searchlights  shot  from  the  hills  and  on 
our  hill  we  stood  and  tried  like  the  devil  to 
figure  out  what  were  the  meanings  of  the  noises 

[41  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

that  cracked  and  rattled  out  of  the  night. 
"Crack,  crash,  blap,  krump,  crash,"  all  in 
varying  powers  and  keys  and  at  varying  dis- 
tances. They  were  Archies  and  bombs  we 
knew,  but  it  was  the  devil's  own  job  to  tell 
which  was  which  and  what  noises  fitted  what 
flashes.  "There  he  is!"  suddenly  cried  Captain 
H.  In  the  crossing  of  four  searchlight  beams 
was  the  Boche  raider,  or  one  of  them.  The 
handsomest  silver  dragon-fly  you  ever  beheld, 
ducking  a  bit  as  if  dazzled  and  turning,  but 
caught. 

Just  then,  down  in  the  valley  about  five 
miles  off,  a  red  roar,  literally  that — a  red  roar! 
A  hideous  roar  and  a  burst  of  red  that  lit  up 
ten  or  twelve  miles  of  the  valley  and  the  cloud 
and  smoke  flashes  overhead.  A  Boche  raider 
had  got  a  dump  —  a  big  one.  Explosion  on  ex- 
plosion, belch  of  noise  on  belch,  tore  up  out  of 
the  valley. 

Then  the  raider  overhead  twisted  and  came 
on  toward  us,  still  caught  in  the  four  beams, 
quite  large,  and  quite  rapidly  getting  right 
overhead.  Every  blamed  Archie  in  the  world, 

[42] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

it  seemed,  concentrated  on  him.  Some  of  our 
party  shrank  around  the  corner  of  the  only  pro- 
tection in  reach  —  a  ruined  house,  for  the  hail 
of  Archie  bullets  is  no  joke.  When  he  was  about 
three  degrees  from  being  squarely  overhead, 
about  six  feet  from  the  zenith,  I  suppose  would 
be  the  technical  term,  he  turned  again,  I  'm  re- 
lieved to  relate,  and  swam  away,  pestered  by 
the  bright-red  fireflies  of  scores  of  Archie  shells. 
And  almost  half  a  mile  off  he  slipped  all  the 
beams  and  got  away. 

The  exploding  dump  kept  roaring  and  red- 
dening the  valley,  and  down  towards  St. 

and  off  to  the  right  of  us  and  farther  off  some- 
where else  bombs  kept  crashing  away.  It  was 
most  baffling  to  tell  what  the  racket  told.  Far 
off  some  silent  Archies  took  to  shooting  some 
beautiful,  sinuous,  green  contraptions  called 
"flaming  onions"  at  some  invisible  raider. 
They  were  heavenly,  tiny  apparitions,  and  are 
hated  by  aviators,  whom  they  burn  to  death. 

So,  that  was  war!  That  was  n't  the  least  bit 
peaceful.  When  we  set  off  and  scooted  through 
St.  the  dump  was  still  going  up.  There 

[43  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

was  menace  in  the  night.  Miles  and  miles  of 
parked  lorries  lined  the  roads  —  great  beasts, 
holding  their  breaths,  rather  than  resting.  One 
tears  along  the  roads  with  lights  out.  We  came 
upon  two  wrecked  autos  and  picked  up  a  French 
officer,  whom,  because  he  had  a  bloody  face, 

we  gave  a  lift  into an  hour  farther  on. 

About  an  hour  after  we  left  the  place  the  raiders 
plumped  three  bombs  into  it. 

I'm  getting  my  forces  mobilized,  getting 
plans  adopted,  turning  out  memos  and  orders 
like  a  mill.  Things  are  looking  up.  I  had  half  a 
room  in  the  big  Headquarters  assigned  to  me 
to-day  and  will  get  it  all  shortly.  My  windows 
claim  a  gorgeous  view.  The  red-tile  roofs  pitch 
down  below  me  Into  the  valley  and  the  wide 
green  and  yellow  land  slopes  up  beyond  away 
to  the  blue  horizon.  The  weather  is  gorgeous, 
the  town  rather  quaint,  and  I  must  say  I  am 
profoundly  content  to  quit  the  recent  life  of 
everlasting  interviews  to  go  into  active  service 
atG.H.Q. 

I  am  billeted  now  in  a  funny  little  cave. 
Madame  Margot  is  my  landlady,  shaving-water- 

[44] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

f etcher,  boot-polisher,  and  cleaner-up;  she's  far 
too  old  and  unhandsome  to  deserve  the  name 
of  Margot.  My  bed  is  most  clean  and  comfort- 
able, and  the  big  window  opens  right  at  my 
head,  and  I  have  a  washstand  with  ten  pieces 
of  crockery  on  it! 

Now  I  must  study  the  map  for  my  route  to 
the  front  to-morrow.  Lots  of  funny  things  have 
happened,  but  after  all  war  is  peacefully  busi- 
nesslike, about  like  a  newspaper  ofhce  —  but 
not  much  worse. 

Don't  worry  when  I  talk  about  going  toward 
the  front.  I'll  not  get  near  enough  to  business 
to  need  a  gas-mask  or  a  tin  hat.  It'll  mean  long 
auto  rides  in  and  out  of  little  villages,  and  after 
two  days  I  '11  be  back  here  at  peace  at  G.H.Q. 

There  goes  taps,  taps  at  G.H.Q.,  but  there 
are  scores  of  officers  hard  at  work  here  in  the 
great  central  building,  which  is  all  black  out- 
side and  all  light  within.  In  the  next  room  an 
officer  is  'phoning  to  the  press  General  Persh- 
ing's statement  on  the  occasion  of  the  launching 
of  the  Fourth  Liberty  Loan.  Do  you  think 
maybe  we  can  afford  another  little  bond.?  Re- 

[45  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

member  I  don't  need  an  earthly  thing.  I've 
lived  sometimes  shamefully  well  when  English- 
men with  whom  I  had  business  insisted  on  win- 
ing and  dining  over  affairs.  In  France  there  is 
no  appreciable  shortage  and  the  meals  are  ex- 
traordinarily well  balanced,  nourishing,  and 
plentiful  —  also  fairly  high  priced.  There's  no 
water  at  all;  one  has  to  drink  Chablis  or  Barsac 
or  Graves  or  Burgundy  —  the  coffee  is  so  poor. 
Is  n't  it  sad  1 

Another  thing.  Here  I  'm  as  safe  as  in  Wash- 
ington, worse  luck.  The  only  thing  I  am  in 
danger  of  losing  is  my  symmetry.  I  have  to  use 
my  right  arm  so  steadily  that  I  'm  getting  lop- 
sided with  all  the  saluting.  There  are  so  many 
generals  around  and  so  many  privates  who  are 
just  as  particular.  Punctilio  is  the  place's  name. 


\ 


XI 

General  Headquarters,  A.E.F., 

August  28,  1918 
This  afternoon,  August  28th,  there  strode  in 
to  G.H.Q.  about  3.45  p.m.  a  certain  officer  from 
a  certain  front-line  division  in  a  certain  well- 
known  sector.  He  was  in  a  hurry.  He  said :  " I'm 
told  you  run  propaganda.  I  want  some  propa- 
ganda —  quick.  We  Ve  got  opposite  us  the 
*umpth'  and  'umpty-umpth'  divisions  and 
we've  had  Some  deserters  from  'em  and  I  want 
some  more.  I  don't  know  much  about  prop- 
aganda. I  believe  in  it,  —  I  don't  think  it  will 
win  the  war  and  all  that,  —  but  if  anything 's 
going  to  get  those  deserters  over,  it's  propa- 
ganda, and  I  want  those  deserters  for  informa- 
tion. Also  there's  the  *umpth'  division  which 
is  going  to  pull  out  in  the  next  few  days  I'm 
morally  sure,  and  I  want  at  least  one  deserter 
from  that.  They're  mostly  afraid  to  come  over 
because  they  all  believe  that  Americans  kill  all 
prisoners." 

[47  I 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

Well,  getting  deserters  over  is  a  side  issue  on 
our  job,  but  what  did  we  do  ?  We  jumped  at  him. 
"How  will  you  get  it  over?"  "Patrols."  "How 
long  is  your  front?"  "It's  'umpth'  kilometres." 
"Show  me  on  the  map."  He  did.  "Draw  a  dia- 
gram of  this  sector  line."  He  scratched  that  out. 
He  said  he  had  translators  and  a  mimeograph. 
We  produced  copy  for  a  leaflet  to  fit  the  case 
—  a  concoction  one  third  Walter's,  one  third 
mine,  and  one  third  Ifft's.  But  we  had  to  get 
approval  and  the  General  was  busy  and  the  of- 
ficer had  to  go.  "Give  me  the  copy  and  'phone 
the  authorization,"  he  said.  "Call  'Bingville 
28'  at  6.30  to-night." 

I  sent  the  copy  in  with  a  memo.  Finally  it 
came  back  with  a  big  blue  scrawl  across  it: 
"Excellent.  'Phone  S to  go  ahead.  Ap- 
proved,   ."  I  'phoned  and  to-morrow  night 

the  first  American-made  propaganda  goes  over 
the  line. 

Did  you  ever  hear  anything  so  amusing?  The 
shop  was  n't  open  yet,  but  we  sold  propaganda 
over  the  counter  like  so  much  meat.  I  laughed 
until  the  plaster  fell  down  on  General  Pershing's 

[48] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

head  in  the  room  under  my  feet.  At  least  it 
almost  fell. 

To-night  I  rammed  ahead,  arranging  to 
print  our  leaflets  by  the  thousands,  writing  a 
new  leaflet  to  puncture  the  first  Austrian  divi- 
sion to  turn  up  on  the  Western  Front — ar- 
ranging to  buy  balloons  and  to  find  out  about 
gas  dumps,  etc.,  etc.;  trying  to  build  overnight 
a  great  machine.  It's  highly  amusing,  and  we 
shall  fight  our  way  through  the  red  tape  yet, 
and  do. 


XII 

General  Headquarters,  A.E.F,, 

September  ^,  191 8 
I  Ve  put  in  another  long  day  and  cleared  my 
desk  this  evening,  as  I  go  up  toward  the  front 
to-morrow  early  to  pick  out  the  places  for  our 
actual  field  work.  For  an  oflScer  "not  to  be 
placed  in  command  of  troops,"  as  my  com- 
mission reads,  I'll  have  quite  a  little  squad  of 
troops  working  for  me.  I  suppose  I  can't  claim 
to  be  their  Field  Marshal  as  they'll  be  tech- 
nically under  the  General  Staff  Officer  whom 
I'm  under,  but  they'll  be  actually  my  men. 

To-night  Corporal  Ralph  Hayes,  —  he  will  be 
a  lieutenant  next  week,  —  Walter  Lippmann, 
and  I,  celebrated  by  dining  at  the  Hotel  de 
France.  It  was  mighty  good  to  see  R.  H.  It  has 
been  pouring  these  days,  and  I  took  a  car  down 
to  meet  the  train,  which  as  always  was  some 
hours  late.  Pushing  through  the  soldier  throng 
came  the  Corporal  and  Walter,  both  very  good 
to  look  upon.  Now  we  sit  here  in  my  room 

[50] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

at  G.H.Q.,  having  swapped  all  the  gossip  of 
home. 

Ralph  is  great  fun,  most  punctilious  to  stand 
in  our  presence  until  ordered  to  be  seated,  and 
refusing  absolutely  to  eat  in  the  officers'  "Y," 
which  is  why  we  carted  him  off  to  the  hotel  for 
dinner.  Dinner  was  a  great  problem  on  the  ship 
coming  over  with  Mr.  Baker.  It  was  unpre- 
cedented to  have  a  corporal  accompany  the 
Secretary  of  War  and  the  meticulous  Navy 
stewed  over  the  complications.  Ralph  could  n't 
dine  with  the  officers,  that  was  plain;  neither 
could  he  eat  with  the  men;  that  would  be  an 
insult  to  the  Secretary.  It  was  finally  decreed 
that  he  could  dine  with  Mr.  Baker  if  he  sat  at 
the  foot  of  the  table!  Fiat. 


XIII 

General  Headquarters,  A.E.F., 

September  ii,  191 8 
How  does  life  go  these  days  ?  At  eight  the  Httle 
alarm  clock  you  got  me  wakes  me  up  and  I  find 
a  pitcher  of  warmish  water  for  shaving  beside 
my  new  polished  boots  at  the  door,  and  by  8.30 
I  'm  at  breakfast,  very  plentiful  and  costing  two 
francs  at  the  "Y."  By  nine  I'm  in  this  room 
which  is  my  kingdom.  On  one  wall  of  it  I  've 
Just  put  up  an  exhibition  of  what  Germany, 
Britain,  France,  and  the  United  States  have 
done  in  the  way  of  propaganda.  Three  of  the 
four  quarters  of  the  wall  are  covered  with  ex- 
hibits. One  —  ours,  of  course  —  is  quite  blank. 
It's  a  big  sunny  room  with  a  tiny  stove  and 
great  four-foot  thick  walls.  All  the  walls  are 
crowded  with  maps,  etc.,  at  which  I  work.  No 
desks  —  just  half  a  dozen  tables.  Here  I  strug- 
gle with  the  long-distance  'phones  and  mobilize 
my  forces.  Griscom,  Ifft,  and  Miltenberger  are 
here.  The  first  two  I  am  sending  to  the  field 

[52] 


WALL  AT  GENERAL  HEADQUARTERS,  A.E.F.,  WITH   EXHIBIT 
OF  BRITISH  AND  GERMAN  PROPAGANDA 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

soon.  One  o'clock  is  lunch;  at  two  I'm  back 
here  and  about  six  I  knock  off;  at  eight-thirty 
I'm  back  and  "through"  at  eleven  or  twelve, 
or  one  a.m.  Perhaps  Hugh  Gibson  goes  back 
to  Washington,  and  if  so  will  look  you  up.  You 
could  probably  get  word  of  his  arrival  there 
from  Bullitt,  of  the  State  Department,  to  which 
he  reports.  We've  been  working  very  closely 
with  Gibson  of  late,  a  young  man  of  great  sense 
with  whom,  you  remember,  I  discussed  some  of 
our  plans  when  we  were  in  Washington. 


XIV 

Midnight  at  G.H.Q.,  on  Friday, 
the  ijth,  a  day  of  great  victory 
I  AM  as  tired  as  I  can  be  and  I  wish  I  were  a 
field  intelligence  officer  instead  of  a  struggler 
with  material  things,  like  balloons  and  type, 
and  translations.  It's  been  hard  to  keep  one's 
mind  on  the  work  here  these  days.  Yesterday 
morning  the  tense  expectancy  broke.  The  word 
flew  'round,  —  "The  offensive  began  at  dawn." 
Then  how  we  waited.  Curiously  like  old  news- 
paper days.  The  first  bulletins  of  progress  were 
from  returning  flyers  whose  word  was  'phoned 
in  here.  Last  night  we  knew  we  had  done  some- 
thing; "10,000  prisoners  —  Thiaucourt — the 
only  roads  out  of  the  pocket  endangered  for  the 
foe."  But  it  was  noon  to-day  before  we  got 
word  that  in  the  night  our  two  onrushing  lines 
had  joined.  St.  Mihiel  had  fallen  —  booty  and 
prisoners  were  being  counted  —  the  offensive 
was  widening.  And  to-night  comes  the  startling 

[54] 


BY  BALLOON. 
Sarrft  gnflbitlldn. 


?'<..! 


BROTHERLY  FRIGHTFULNESS   (BRITISH   PROPAGANDA) 
The  Murder  of  Russian  Freedom  by  German  Socialists  after  the  Brest-Litovsk  Treaty. 

IN  THE   LAND  OF  THE  "FREE" 


HOW  Morganism  has  driven  Wilson  and-America  to  the  Betrayal  of  Humanity 

KULTUR   CARTOON 

Sent  by  the  Germans  over  and  into  the  lines  of  the  British  Fifth  Army  in  March,  igid- 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

word  that  shells  are  falling  in  Metz  —  barely 
thirty  hours  after  the  start. 

Long  before  you  get  this  you  '11  know  whether 
great  things  were  done  or  whether  the  counter- 
attack stopped  us.  It  has  been  too  exciting  —  I 
am  too  tired  with  the  struggle  to  mobilize  my 
men,  getting  orders  and  supplies,  trying  to 
pursue  our  victorious  army  —  to  talk  of  it 
now  with  any  accuracy. 

Here  on  my  desk  are  little  things  I've  been 
wanting  to  send  you  for  weeks.  One  is  a  bit 
grisly — the  leaflet  Bible  some  Boche  wisher- 
after-revolution  carried  till  the  shell  struck 
him.  Another  is  a  cartoon  the  British  have  sent 
over  by  the  millions.  They  think  it  excellent 
balloon  propaganda.  The  label,  "By  Balloon," 
is  because  they  do  not  wish  reprisals  on  their 
aviators  if  the  planes  carry  propaganda.  So 
they  put  this  label  on  all  their  balloon  propa- 
ganda that  their  captured  airmen  won't  be 
falsely  accused.  (It's  a  curious  side-light  on 
Boche  psychology  that  aviators  may  drop 
bombs  which  may  fall  on  women  and  children 
and  yet  be  treated  by  the  Germans  with  all  the 

[55  1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

honors  of  war,  but  if  caught  dropping  words, 
they  will  be  promptly  shot.)  Our  aviators  have 
been  carrying  our  propaganda  very  busily  these 
days  —  twenty  thousand  leaflets  in  the  past 
three  days. 


XV 

A  town  in  France, 
September  14,  1918 
Remember  those  candles  you  got  me  at  the 
Commissary?  I  am  writing  by  the  light  of  one. 
I  was  wise  enough  to  throw  a  couple  into  the 
flap  of  my  clothes-roll  this  noon,  but  not  wise 
enough  to  put  in  your  lantern  which  I  thought 
I  could  get  along  without.  I'm  lucky  to  find 
this  billet  lit  for  a  radius  of  about  six  inches  by 
this  candle.  My  paper  is  backed  by  the  map 
I've  trekked  by  all  day.  The  clock  has  struck 
ten  but  no  taps  sound  here  and  the  presence 
of  a  great  staff  is  kept  as  quiet  as  can  be  —  kept 
dark,  too,  for  my  window  is  heavily  shuttered 
against  even  this  beam  of  light.  Two  iron  beds 
are  in  the  room  with  mattresses,  covers,  and 
coverlets  to  a  depth  of  three  feet  atop. 

You  would  have  laughed  to  see  me  walk  in 
here.  I  found  the  front  door  shut  and  shuttered 
and  carefully  shoved  back  the  wooden  side 
door  or  cart  gate  which  Madame  had  pointed 

[57  1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

out  to  me  two  hours  before  and  was  greeted  by 
savage  eclat  from  a  dog.  I  decide  he  's  chained 
somewhere  in  the  darkness,  —  it's  easier  than 
to  decide  he's  loose,  —  and  I  carefully  feel 
around  for  the  two  stone  steps  and  the  little 
wooden  door  into  the  house.  The  must  of  the 
stone  walls  comes  off  on  my  hands,  —  I  can 
feel  it  coming  off,  —  finally  to  the  increasing 
clamor  of  the  dog  I  gain  the  iron  latch  and 
stumble  in.  I  decide  the  door  with  the  crack  of 
light  around  it  is  the  stair  entrance  and  try 
hard  to  force  it.  "Qui  est  la.^"  demands  a 
scared  woman  inside.  It  is  Madame's  bedroom, 
apparently.  "Pardon,  Madame,  c'est  I'officier 
Americain.  Je  cherche  —  qu'est  que  c'est  le 
nom  for  stair?  —  Oh!  I'escalier."  More  stum- 
bling, and  then  with  a  bang  I  fall  through  the 
right  door.  Madame  in  undress  appears  with  a 
bougie  and  lights  me  up.  She  assures  me  I  shall 
find  "I'eau  potable"  in  my  room,  but  with  an 
inflection  which  makes  me  repeat  my  near- 
French  question.  Again  she  says  "yes,"  but 
unreassuringly.  So  I  speak  further  of  drinking- 
water  and  she  says,  "Oui,  c'est  la,  pour  vous 
[  58  1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

laver!"  Just  as  I  had  feared!  "Non,  Madame, 
j'ai  grand  soif."  Then,  just  as  if  she'd  under- 
stood for  the  first  time,  she  asks  if  I  want  a 
drink  and  if  I  want  it  now  —  "water  to  drink  ? " 
Which  I  emphatically  do  and  finally  acquire 
—  the  hardest  thing  to  get  in  France. 

There  is  a  terrific  crashing  clatter  on  the 
cobbles  below;  I  peek  through  the  shutters,  for 
I  suspect  what  it  is  —  yes  —  the  black  crusher 
is  spitting  blue  flamelets  in  the  night  below  me, 
a  tractor,  and  behind  it  what  might  be  a  sizable 
log  on  wheels  —  but  is  n't.  The  cumbersome- 
looking  gun  is  carefully  swathed  in  canvas, 
which  the  thousand  eyes  of  the  night  can't  pick 
out  as  camouflage.  By  the  way,  it's  getting 
moonlight  —  fine  for  raids,  these  nights.  I 
haven't  seen  a  raid  since  that  night  on  the 
British  front. 

Now  there  is  tramping  below  and  a  halt  and 
women's  and  children's  voices  cry  shrill  direc- 
tions  to  the  inquirer.  "A  gauche!"  —  "Non, 
non,  petite,  a  droite!"  —  "Le  premier  a  droite, 
alors  a  gauche!"  —  and  American  voices  are 
heard  translating  the  words  and  the  trampers 

[59] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

are  off  to  gay  "Bonsoirs."  For  the  townspeople 
are  in  high  spirits.  I  leaned  over  their  shoulders 
to-day  as  we  read  the  communique  together,  — 
"Ah,  les  Americains,"  they  point  and  cry; 
"Treize  mille  prisonniers  —  des  grands  canons 
—  ah!"  And  seeing  me  looking  very  grim  and 
warlike,  they  laugh  gladly  and  their  words  are 
like  an  embrace —  "Bonnes  nouvelles." 

Have  just  relit  the  candle  after  leaning  out 
over  the  black  street  for  a  good  ten  or  twelve 
minutes  watching  a  noise.  It  was  a  long,  heavy, 
multitudinous  grating  on  stones —  an  unproduc- 
ible  sound;  it  was  not  marching,  —  it  sounded 
more  like  horses,  —  but  it  was  too  guttural  for 
cavalry.  The  candle  had  blinded  me,  but  at 
last  I  could  make  them  out,  —  interminable 
windrows  of  shadows  scraping  by,  with,  yes, 
every  little  while  a  horse  or  two.  Think  of  a 
river  made  of  pebbles,  flowing  over  a  stone  bed, 
and  yet  flowing  in  waves;  that  is  the  sound  of  a 
mile  of  infantry  toiling  through  a  French  town 
at  night.  Their  heavy  nailed  shoes  make  the 
queerest  thousand-footed  scraping  trample.  It 
works  along  without  voice — the  undulatory 
[60] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

iron-scaled  snake  on  the  narrow  stone  street. 
There  are  no  faces  —  just  shadow  rows,  voice- 
less as  herds.  "Who  the  hell  says  the  Americans 
aren't  here  —  hey,  Yanks?"  laughs  a  shadow 
under  my  window,  but  not  a  word  answers  the 
clashing,  laboring  column.  They  are  going  "up. " 
Along  all  these  roads  they  are  pushing  up. 
Mostly  by  night,  of  course,  but  in  many  places 
by  day.  This  afternoon  I  was  in  a  region  of 
smashed  hamlets,  peopled  with  Americans, — • 
sprawled  tired  in  the  streets,  —  sticking  out  of 
camouflaged  doors  of  roofless  stone  houses, — 
the  streets  jammed  with  their  vehicles'  gear. 
They  do  not  know  who  were  in  that  town  a  few 
hours  before;  they  cannot  tell  even  the  number 
of  the  units  before  them;  they  stop  to  "chow'* 
or  sleep  and  "go  up"  leaving  the  town  deserted 
—  and  in  an  hour  the  town  is  again  populous  — 
and  quickly  deserted  again.  Each  of  these  vil- 
lages is  filled  with  inhabitants  who  prospect 
around,  seek  out  what  poor  comfort  the  wreck- 
age aflFords,  and  then  push  on  as  if  they  had 
found  the  place  accursed.  Hotels  are  these  ham- 
lets —  whose  guests  shove  'round  the  furniture 
[6i  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

of  stones  and  boards  and  tiles  and  straw  and 
leave  all  to  be  shoved  'round  and  used  by 
hordes  of  new  guests.  Splintered  trees,  smashed 
churches,  homes  in  debris,  —  they  have  been 
crashed  and  re-smashed  for  four  years,  —  and 
now  in  a  day  the  Menace  has  been  hurled  out 
and  these  wrecks  are  free,  jree  !  They  don't  look 
as  if  they  knew  it  or  appreciated  it.  Yet  now 
their  owners  will  come  back  as  soon  as  these 
freeing,  invading  guests  have  pushed  through 
and  will  reclaim  the  stones  which  the  German 
guns  can  never  reach  again. 

I  stood  to-day  on  a  ridge,  a  low  ridge  edge,  — 
where  two  days  ago  it  would  have  been  certain 
death  to  have  stood  up  straight  in  the  open  as 
I  stood.  Before  me  was  the  riot  of  wire;  behind 
me  trenches  and  mailed  dugouts  —  earth  over 
their  mail  —  and  gun  emplacements  with  the 
tattered  junk  called  camouflage  still  over  the 
emplacements.  The  guns  were  gone  —  the 
shells  were  even  then  "going  up."  Beside  me 
was  a  small  muddy  pothole  —  blown  there.  The 
shard  I  enclose  in  this  letter  was  picked  out  of 
the  mud  in  it  —  overlooking  the  fields  where 
[62I 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

Americans  fought  their  first  battle  on  this  front 
six  months  ago  and  where  they  started  sixty- 
hours  before  to-day  for  their  first  "American 
push."  Over  the  rivulet  with  a  famous  name 
was  the  pleasant  lone  hill  whence  the  German 
eye  devastated  the  district  by  commanding  it 

—  so  few  hours  before.  And  now  the  Amer- 
ican observation  balloons  sailed  high  ahead  — 
a  dozen  soared  overhead.  Not  a  shot  was  to 
be  heard. 

The  thicker  the  camouflage,  the  thicker  the 
shells  once  flew.  Farther  back  the  high  wicker 
partitions  on  the  foeward  side  of  our  road  had 
been  flimsy.  Here  they  were  tightly  woven, 
with  canvas  reinforcement  and  clever  wing 
protection,  beyond  the  necessary  breaks,  and 
even  so  —  signs  stood  by  the  roads  —  "Danger 

—  I'ennemie  vous  voit."  Military  initials  and 
arrows  were  painted  or  chalked  up  on  bits  of 
unshattered  wall  —  everywhere  were  the  signs 
of  hell,  but  none  were  to  be  heard.  Now 
and  then  far  off  would  go  a  rumble  and  a 
crump !  And  in  two  places  smoke  on  the  ridges 
ahead  showed  where  villages  burned.  Overhead 

[63 1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

hummed  the  blackbirds  that  make  villages 
bum.  Once  we  could  see  shrapnel  burst  in  dirty 
wool  puffs  around  some  invisible  airplane  — 
'way,  'way  ahead.  But  the  farthest  thing  to  be 
seen  was  the  pale  eye  of  a  German  observation 
balloon  —  like  an  onion  hanging  over  the  hor- 
izon woods. 

One  thing  has  stuck  in  my  mind.  In  Beau- 
mont is  a  shot-to-hell  church  tower,  one  corner 
intact,  and  in  that  corner,  set  to  show  two  faces 
as  are  many  village  clocks  in  these  parts,  was 
the  clock.  The  time  it  showed  was  correct  by 
my  wrist  watch.  Who  in  that  shattered  place — 
up  in  that  very  bull's-eye  of  Boche  gunners  — 
took  the  trouble  to  repair  and  wind  and  keep 
repaired  and  wound  that  clock  .^  Some  rooted 
old  inhabitant  .f*  Some  bored,  restless  American 
soldier-transient? 


XVI 

General  Headquarters,  A.E.F., 

September  21,  1918 
It  will  do  no  harm  to  tell  you  where  I  was  the 
other  day  except  naming  the  starting  and  finish- 
ing points.  Through  Rupt,  west  of  St.  Mihiel, 
we  went  through  Fresnes,  and  from  this  point 
on  as  far  as  Vigneulles  the  world  is  mostly 
wire.  At  the  river  we  turned  north  through  La 
Paroches  and  Barmoncourt  to  Woimby,  then 
across  to  Fort  de  Troyon,  south  to  La  Croix- 
sur-Meuse,  east  to  Seuzey,  up  to  Dommartin 
la  Montague,  with  the  line  some  three  or  four 
miles  off,  then  to  Deuxmonds  on  the  back 
track,  Spada,  St.  Mihiel,  and  Sampigny.  The 
"line"  is  a  vague  term  in  such  sections.  The 
line  means  a  belt  three  or  four  miles  wide 
through  which  patrols  of  both  sides  sneak  or 
career  hunting  information,  prisoners,  posts  of 
vantage,  etc. 

It  was  afternoon  when  we  headed  through 
the  remains  of  Fresnes  for  St.  Mihiel.  Wire, 
[6sl 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

wire,  wire,  trenches,  wire,  but  a  clear  road 
ahead,  until  suddenly  French  soldiers  headed 
us  north,  through  the  village  of  La  Paroches, 
over  the  trenches,  around  repaired  shell-holes, 
along  the  railroad  to  Verdun,  already  being 
repaired  by  Yank  engineers. 

Still  wire  and  wire,  and  we  headed  for  Dom- 
pierre-aux-Bois  via  Seuzey.  Greater  shell-holes 
full  of  water  appeared,  interminable  wire.  The 
whole  world  here  for  a  good  fifteen  miles  across, 
up  hill  and  down  dale,  is  of  wire,  belt  after  belt, 
until  you  cannot  tell  what  is  Allied,  what  is 
Boche,  and  where  is  No  Man's  Land.  The 
smashed  villages  are  all  wired  up  and  the  wire 
is  in  all  the  woods  as  thick  as  underbrush.  I 
kept  looking  for  a  change  in  the  wire  to  indi- 
cate the  late  dividing  line  of  control,  but  I 
found  another  sign  that  was  surer. 

Just  west  of  Seuzey,  down  in  the  bemired 
belt  of  wire,  was  a  grave,  a  short  round  mound 
with  gay  red,  white,  and  blue  cockades  on  it. 
A  few  hundred  feet  farther  on  in  the  next  belt 
of  wire  was  a  grave  with  a  birchwood  marker 
like  a  cross,  with  a  coping  over  it,  and  the  label 
[66] 


WALL  AT  GENERAL  HEADQUARTERS,  A.E.F.,  WITH  EXHIBIT 

OF  FRENCH  PROPAGANDA  AND  THE  BEGINNINGS  OF 

AN  AMERICAN  EXHIBIT 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

in  the  centre  was  German.  The  narrow  stretch 
between  had  been  No  Man's  Land.  The  wire, 
too,  changed  in  character  —  it  was  worse-look- 
ing wire,  more  strongly  and  viciously  built, 
more  rusted  and  more  machine  made,  the  re- 
sult of  quantity  production,  though  there  was 
not  so  much  of  it  everywhere  as  on  the  French 
side.  It  had  more  scientific-looking  barbs  and 
had  stronger  L-shaped  iron  supports,  and  the 
iron  vertical  pegs  had  spiral  handles. 

In  Seuzey,  under  the  blue  French  signboard 
of  iron,  smashed  in  half  by  a  shell,  was  a  board 
lettered,  "Feindl,  Bericht,"  etc.,  "Enemy  Gas 
Area."  We  were  where  the  Boche  had  just  left. 

The  road  led  straight  on.  Where  the  wire, 
friendly  and  enemy,  edges  the  way  the  chevaux- 
des-frises  lay  mean  and  handy  as  if  ready  to 
be  rolled  into  place  rather  than  just  heaved  out 
of  the  way  by  the  Yanks.  The  dugouts  seemed 
the  same,  except  better  built  with  a  greater 
determination  after  comfort.  The  camouflage 
began  to  be  different.  Factory-made  instead  of 
hand-wattled  as  was  universal  on  the  French 
side. 

[67] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

The  chief  difference  was  in  the  signboards. 
They  were  everywhere  —  twelve  or  twenty 
to  a  crossroads,  all  kinds  of  directions  and 
instructions,  printed  out,  written,  or  mili- 
tary sign  manual.  Braggadocio  labels  were 
among  them  —  "Kronprinz  Stern,"  and  other 
"Prinz,"  castles,  etc.  —  sometimes  a  humor- 
ous one.  A  completely  wrecked  house  was  care- 
fully labelled  with  a  painted  board,  "Soldaten 
Heim"  ("Soldiers'  Home"),  and  one  of  its 
smashed  entrances  was  marked,  "Bath  Es- 
tablishment," in  name  recaUing  the  Kursaal  of 
Bad  Homburg. 

We  saw  German  trucks  and  green-gray 
wagons  with  the  double  eagle  stencilled  on, 
now  doing  valiant  service  for  the  Amexes.  Be- 
side the  road  was  an  American  truck  burned 
to  iron  by  a  shell.  Near  by  were  scores  of  Boche 
shells  in  their  neat  wicker  casings.  Trenches 
lined  with  masonry  and  hutments  surrounded 
with  rustic  benches,  piped  "trinkwasser,"  high- 
power  electric  cables,  and  even  sentry-boxes, 
with  the  identic  slanting  black-and-white  zebra 
markings  that  you  see  in  front  of  the  Pots- 
[68] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

dam  palaces  on  sentry-boxes,  were  in  those 
woods. 

All  the  ground  was  far  worse  torn  up  than 
on  the  French  side.  I  never  saw  before  so  many 
giant  holes  and  such  an  acreage  of  "ploughed'* 
ground.  Some  of  the  neatly  numbered  Boche 
war  gardens  were  torn  to  smithereens.  The  vil- 
lages were  completely  smashed  and  utterly 
deserted. 

On  the  way  out,  in  the  dark  we  halted  in  a 
village  utterly  demolished,  but  already  neatly 
cleaned  so  far  as  the  streets  were  concerned  — 
but  dead,  all  dead.  There  was  one  living  thing 
which  made  the  whole  place  simply  seem  deader 
—  a  cat  which  raced  out  of  nowhere  and  hid 
under  the  auto. 

There  were  a  good  many  German  graves  in 
the  woods,  respected  little  mounds,  each  with 
its  edging  of  stone  and  its  birchwood  cross  with 
the  eaves  on  it.  In  one  French  cemetery  were 
some  Boche  graves  shortly  to  be  moved  there- 
from. In  a  ditch  our  driver  spied  a  dead 
man. 

Now  these  woods  are  crammed  with  Yanks. 

[69] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

Their  few  neat  signs  are  tacked  up  over  the 
Boche.  Fewer  signs,  greater  intelHgence! 

In  an  utterly  vacant  village  —  just  one  mass 
of  smashed  dwellings  converted  into  machine- 
gun  nests,  all  looped  round  with  wire  and  belted 
with  masonry  trenches,  no  signs,  no  footprints, 
but  the  road  cleared  by  fast  United  States  en- 
gineers—  we  picked  up  Boche  machine-gun 
belts  fully  loaded  lying  in  the  grass.  The  marvel 
is  how  any  army  could  ever  break  through  such 
a  mass  of  fortifications.  It  is  a  greater  marvel 
that  our  doughboys  did  it  in  one  day  ! 

They  tell  some  great  stories  of  the  doings 
there.  One  German  major  was  found  with  his 
kit  all  packed  up,  his  arms  folded,  waiting  to 
go  to  prison  camp.  He  was  furious  with  his 
high  command  whom  he  had  told  the  attack 
was  coming,  but  who  did  n't  believe  him.  So, 
in  high  dudgeon  and  righteous  indignation,  he 
made  no  effort  to  escape.  Achilles  in  his  tent 
was  no  nobler  picture! 

I  keep  telling  the  funniest  story  of  all.  On  the 
British  front  they  advanced  so  fast  not  long 
ago  that  they  caught  a  train  and  sent  the  en- 

[70] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

gineer  trailing  back  a  prisoner.  The  engineer 
was  explosive  with  indignation  and  flourished 
a  paper  which  nobody  would  read.  Busy  fight- 
ers just  waved  Fritz  rearward  and  he  waved 
his  paper  as  he  went.  Finally,  late  in  the  day 
somebody  looked  at  his  paper.  It  was  a  guar- 
antee from  the  Imperial  German  Government 
that  he  would  not  be  sent  for  service  into  the 
war  zone.  According  to  his  interpretation  he 
therefore  could  not  be  taken  prisoner!  There- 
fore he  demanded  to  be  sent  back  to  Germany 
at  once! 

It  is  astounding  how  Russia  does  not  exist 
here.  Nobody  gives  a  damn  about  Russia  in 
France.  The  German  at  our  gates  bulks  too  big 
for  anybody  to  think  at  all  about  Russia.  The 
more  you  see  of  the  German,  of  his  army,  his 
fighting  power,  the  more  you  see  how  near  he 
came  to  wiping  France  off  the  map  the  same 
as  Serbia  —  the  more  you  see  that  licking  the 
German  is  not  the  entirely  secondary  matter 
that  some  good  souls  deem  it  to  be.  Ask  these 
good  souls  what  they  would  do  if  they  found 
themselves  in  a  roomful  of  persons  whom  they 

1 71  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

knew  pretty  well  and  suddenly  one  half  the 
room  begins  to  fight  them  with  every  resource. 
Would  they  expect  their  half  of  the  room  to  sit 
back  and  talk  about  the  devastating  effects  of 
combat  on  some  new-born  infant  next  door? 
They  do  know  the  Boche  pretty  well  over  here. 
I  'm  not  saying  we  know  the  whole  truth  about 
the  Boche  or  that  you  are  n't  as  near  his  civil- 
ian population  as  we  are,  but  we  can't  get  away 
from  his  very  efficient  and  aggressive  army  all 
over  the  place. 


XVII 

General  Headquarters^  A.E.F,, 

September  24,  19 18 
Such  funny  days  I  have.  There  were  never  such 
complicated  ones.  One  hour  I  struggle  with 
ideas  —  trying  to  make  acute  judgments  on 
the  Boche  psychology  in  relation  to  world  pol- 
itics; the  next  I  struggle  with  things  —  print 
paper,  maps,  transport,  gas,  manufacture,  sci- 
entific tests;  again  I  turn  to  what  is  neither  — 
papers  relating  chiefly  to  how  to  get  at  the  gas, 
tests,  transport,  etc.  That  is  the  most  baffling 
of  all.  And  another  day  I  may  do  nothing  but 
ride.  Yesterday  I  motored  two  hundred  miles. 
But  I  called  the  whole  ride  a  bally  bore  and  am 
getting  fed  up  on  these  miles  of  beautiful  coun- 
try that  I  now  know  so  well. 

I  departed  cussing,  and  then  laughed  at  my- 
self. There  I  was  in  a  high-power  luxurious 
Cadillac,  mine  own  equipage,  with  the  General 
Staff  mark  fore  and  aft,  with  the  best  driver  in 
G.  2.  D.  awaiting  my  orders,  and  all  the  north- 

t73  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

east  roads  of  France  open  ahead.  It  was  a  mag- 
nificent car,  seven-seater,  limousine,  with  fine 
leather  fittings,  blue  drawn  curtains  all  around, 
set-in  electric  lights,  on  one  side  a  rack  for  a 
mirror,  smelling  salts,  and  vanity-box  (only 
the  vanity-box  missing),  the  mirror  framed  in 
fawn  leather,  and  on  the  other  side  a  rack  for 
cigarette  ashes  and  matches.  Hell!  there  was 
even  a  cushion  for  my  muddy  boots!  War!  My 
aunt!  Only  the  paint  on  the  outside  was  warlike! 

It  was  just  like  the  remark  of  the  unknown 
oflBcer  opposite  me  at  the  dinner  table  to-night 
at  the  "  Y."  He  was  a  silent  guy  who,  after  our 
warrior's  hard  repast  of  soup  (most  delicious), 
white  bread,  perfectly  cooked  meat  with  carrots 
and  chestnuts,  milky  mashed  potatoes,  salad 
and  cheese,  and  sugary  confitures  with  cookies 
and  coffee,  exploded  sourly,  "It's  a  hard  life." 
I  asked  how  long  since  he'd  been  put  on  Staff, 
and  he  said  nine  weeks  and  two  days.  I  knew 
he  was  savagely  comparing  his  fare  with  his 
field  mess  and  longing  for  the  latter. 

Yesterday  I  bowled  along  so  lordly  that  I 
got  into  a  wild  temper  in  the  city  of  Toul  where 

[74] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

I  stopped  for  lunch,  telling  the  driver  to  be 
back  at  12.45.  It  was  then  12  o'clock.  At  the 
"Comedie"  there  was  a  waiting  line  of  United 
States  officers,  twenty-five  long,  hoping  for  a 
place  in  the  large  dining-room,  also  filled  with 
Americans.  At  the  Metz  across  the  street  I  got 
the  last  seat  and  waited  until  12.30  without 
one  flicker  of  attention  from  the  one  girl  and 
one  man  for  the  whole  dining-room.  Quitting 
in  rage  I  sought  the  "Bronoquet,"  where  a 
painted  lady  gladly  told  me  the  place  was 
complet.  The  "Centrale"  was  full  of  soldiers, 
but  I'd  have  taken  a  seat  if  there 'd  been  one. 
I  tackled  some  "lower-class"  places  labelled 
"restaurant,"  but  there  were  no  dining-rooms 
in  them.  "Restaurant"  often  means  just  beer 
and  bread.  Back  at  the  "Comedie"  the  waiting 
line  was  still  longer.  One  place  of  very  low  de- 
gree was  full.  I  could  see  through  the  window  — 
food  was  there  —  only  there  was  no  door.  I 
still  wonder  how  the  devil  folks  got  into  that 
place  —  I  nearly  tried  the  window.  Again  I 
invaded  the  "Centrale"  where  the  proprietor 
fiercely  greeted  me.  "Finie!  Finie!!!"  French 

[75  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

for  It's  one  o'clock,  and  therefore  illegal  to 
serve  new  diners.  I  told  him  firmly  as  I  planked 
I  myself  down,  "Vous  avez  quelques  choses  a 
manger  et  j'ai  faim,  voila  tout."  He  imme- 
diately smiled,  and  as  he  weakened  I  ordered 
"du  vin,"  which  always  melts  recalcitrant 
French  hearts,  and,  moreover,  exhibited  bread 
tickets  which  enable  French  hoteliers  to  get 
bread  from  the  baker.  Amid  the  soldiers  I  got 
a  meal  —  and  very  decent,  too. 

War's  brutalizing  me  fearfully  in  France. 
With  my  busted  French  I  unblushingly  call 
Madame  the  hostess,  and  say:  "The  first  word 
you  addressed  to  me  when  I  sat  down  was 
'bread  tickets.'  I  gave  them.  Now  I  don't  want 
in  return  that  piece  which  the  cat  has  licked. 
Fetch  the  good  bread  and  plenty  of  it." 

Now,  having  blasted  the  slackers  who  mar 
the  landscape,  I  admit  I  feel  better  —  or 
ashamed  of  myself.  It  seems  churlish  to  swear 
in  a  land  where  the  streets  are  black  if  there 
are  many  women  in  them.  Such  starved  women, 
too.  Everywhere  the  fire  and  life  and  joy  of 
womanhood  here  are  hung  round  with  a  pall  of 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

sooty  mourning.  The  girls  are  moving  clouds 
of  death.  Eyes  that  sparkle  —  and  in  a  mirror 
catch  themselves  sparkling  —  also  see  them- 
selves framed  in  a  color  that  denies  eyes  the 
right  to  sparkle.  Their  young  vigor  is  con- 
demned. 

The  open  road  in  France  is  one  thing  by  day 
and  another  by  night.  By  day  the  roads  are 
pretty  vacant  and  my  car  roared  along  un- 
hampered. But  by  night  there  begins  a  tre- 
mendous flow  of  iron  along  the  arteries  of  this 
front.  Guns  and  shell  trucks,  tractors,  horses 
dragging  metal  things,  and  the  men  bearing 
iron  arms  fill  the  roads  and  "proceed  up."  By 
day  the  road  is  clear  again,  the  only  evidence 
of  its  night  travail  being  wheels,  broken  gear, 
and  every  little  while  entire  smashed  trucks 
shoved  into  the  ditch  —  casualties  of  the  night. 
The  iron  armies  are  gone,  —  hid  in  the  woods,  — - 
the  next  night  to  sally  forth  and  "proceed" 
again. 

If  you  are  abroad  at  night  and  slowly  work 
your  way  by  one  of  these  truck  trains  you  make 
out  the  tired,  laborious  figures  afoot,  ahorse, 

t77l 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

atruck,  lurching  with  discomfort  and  drooping 
with  sleep,  and  amongst  them  always  a  big 
proportion  of  alert,  amused,  able  Americans^ 
quietly  whistling,  or  smoking,  —  joking  at 
trouble,  —  and  cheerful  about  the  "  top  "  whose 
going  over  they  are  approaching.  You  work  by 
miles  after  miles  of  men  whose  silhouetted  jaws 
all  point  one  way  under  their  foolish  flat  hel- 
mets. The  thrill  of  war  is  vibrant  for  miles  — 
"Suwanee  River,"  "Baby's  Prayer  at  Dawn," 
"Mist  over  theah  like  on  the  old  Bayou" 
(Southern  accent),  "Well,  you'd  think  this 
train  was  bound  for  the  next  war"  (Yankee 
twang),  "These  damn  narrow  roads  ain't  no 
mark  to  the  pikes  in  Santa  Clara  County,  Cal." 
(Western  voice,  rather  loud)  —  such  are  the 
human  punctuations  in  the  basically  iron  rum- 
ble of  the  column. 

It's  a  mighty  human  war.  Wild  optimism  — 
*'D'  je  hear?  We're  going  to  take  Metz  in  the 
next  ten  days";  serious  gossip  —  "The  regi- 
mental sergeant  major  told  the  Top  that  they 
know  now  from  a  Boche  prisoner  that  there  are 
thirteen  lines  of  defense  with  over  eleven  hun- 

1 78  ] 


^3 


cl 

s? 

toj" 

^  c 

ttt-S 

m^ 

S 

Ijl-^! 

15  trJ 

1 

1 

! 
1 

i 

^^^s 

1 
i 

1 

^» 

felbpoftkartc 

fur  beuffd)*  Solbaten,  Me 
oon  Der  atnerihanifctiBn  nrrace 
gefangen  genommen  (DerOen. 


ffle^Bunj 

(Sircfc  unt  'jtulntintmtr} 


161 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

dred  concrete  machine-gun  nests  in  the  Hinden- 
burg  line  on  our  front";  simple  wonder  —  "It's 
plain  the  Germans  can't  do  anything  against 
us — ^look  at  St.  Mihiel";  wisdom — "You 
poor  fish,  the  Boche  pulled  out.  Everybody 
knows  that."  So  it  goes.  There  is  so  much  wait- 
ing in  war  that  an  army  talks  more  than  two 
whole  nations  in  a  generation  of  peace-time. 

The  job  goes  so-so.  Poorly  just  now,  but  due 
to  material  difficulties  and  those  we  can  and 
shall  overcome.  It's  a  terrible  job  to  start  a  big 
enterprise  like  this  in  an  atmosphere  of  offen- 
sives. I  enclose  my  latest  effort  —  a  bill  of  fare. 
Is  it  a  puzzle .f^  It's  for  air  work.  The  solution 
is.  What  can  you  make  a  good  Boche  soldier, 
under  orders  to  destroy  all  luftblatter,  keep 
and  carry  around.^  Good  or  rotten,  the  idea's 
mine.  Also  my  International  Bulletin  in  two 
languages  is  progressing. 


XVIII 

Somewhere  in  France^ 
September  zg,  191 8 
This  is  headquarters  of  an  army  during  a  great 
drive  and  it  has  all  the  air  of  any  office,  the 
usual  offices  in  usual  times.  Even  business 
does  n't  seem  to  be  especially  rushing;  when 
business  in  steel  is  rushing,  the  offices  do  not 
go  frantic  —  it's  out  in  the  shop  one  hears 
clangor.  When  business  in  iron  and  blood  is 
brisk,  the  offices  do  not  explode  —  it's  out  in 
the  woods  and  on  the  ridges  and  in  front  of 
"wire"  that  men  rush  and  sweat  and  chill  to 
death  and  swear  and  cringe  and  yell  their  tri- 
umph. Out  in  this  business's  "industrial  dis- 
tricts," some  miles  from  here,  the  fireflies  and 
the  war-workers  struggle  for  poor  comfort  in 
their  literally  earthen  hovels,  but  in  these 
oflSces  we  sit  like  business  magnates,  interested 
mainly  in  "results,"  "output,"  "expenses," 
"gains." 

,    In  the  next  rooms  are  the  true  office  force, 
[80] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

with  maps  and  'phones.  We  are  interlopers, 
occupying  the  desks  and  chairs  of  Major  Wil- 
lard  Straight's  room.  We  have  been  reading 
the  President's  splendid  speech/  and  having 
fully  discussed  and  approved  it,  one  is  typing 
a  report,  another  is  absorbing  the  papers  and 
a  stray  copy  of  the  New  Republic,  and^  I  am 
chatting  with  you. 

Yesterday  we  inducted  Lieutenant  Ralph 
Hayes  into  his  estate.  We  saw  him  oathed, 
bought  his  ornaments,  and  as  we  motored 
north,  pinned  his  insignia  on  him  and  bedev- 
illed him  into  office.  He  lacks  only  the  brown 
braid  on  his  blouse  sleeve  and  the  Sam  Browne 
belt.  Both  sins  are  covered  by  his  raincoat, 
which  he  overworks  now  to  maintain  an  appear- 
ance of  living  up  to  regulations.  People  who 
were  bothered  by  our  association  on  terms  of 
equality  with  a  corporal  are  equally  bothered 
by  said  corporal's  sudden  elevation  to  the  state 
of  officer  and  gentleman. 

For  the  past  three  days  we  have  been  associ- 
ating with  German  prisoners,  studying  Boche 

1  See  Appendix. 

[8i  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

psychology  at  first-hand.  We  have  examined 
scores,  officers  and  privates,  Prussian,  Saxon, 
Hanoverian,  Hungarian,  and  Roumanian,  old- 
ish and  very  young.  What  is  the  Boche  like  ? 

I  have  three  major  impressions:  First,  the 
great  herd,  the  dirty  common  cattle,  simple, 
stinking,  helpless,  dangerous.  They  want  to  eat 
and  be  warm.  They  are  speechless.  They  are  all 
glad  to  be  prisoners. 

Second,  the  ordinary  run  of  officers  —  intel- 
ligent, trimmed,  and  controlled  in  mind  and 
body,  stubborn,  able,  but  unattractive,  who 
can  be  voluble.  They  are  utterly  unoriginal. 

Third,  certain  youths.  A  few  days  ago  they 
were  trying  to  kill  Americans,  and  if  I  met 
them  I  should  dutifully  try  to  stick  a  bayonet 
in  them,  if  able  to.  They  are  the  enemy.  They 
have  delicate  faces,  clear  skin  and  eyes.  I  used 
to  see  many  of  the  like  of  them  before  me  in 
schoolrooms. 

Take  Herr  Junkherr  H.  von  B.,  aged  twenty, 

of  the  Prussian  Guards.  "Papa,"  to  whom  he 

constantly   refers,   was   Military   Attache   at 

Washington  once.  The  boy  speaks  perfect  Eng- 

[82] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

lish.  He  is  slim,  almost  feminine  in  his  manner, 
handsome.  When  brought  before  me  he  ad- 
dresses me  at  once  to  prefer  a  request;  "May  I 
ask  that  my  rank  and  name  be  not  ignored? 
The  French  officer  who  interrogated  me  did 
not  acknowledge  the  salute  and  left  the  room 
without  speaking.  In  the  German  army  officers 
always  speak  on  leaving  the  room."  All  this 
most  gently,  like  a  child  who  was  bewildered 
and  must  know  at  once  whether  he  was  to  re- 
ceive the  treatment  that  he  expected.  A  true 
stripling  of  his  class,  who  stated  his  "social 
position"  as  if  it  were  the  same  sort  of  fact  as 
his  name,  place  of  residence,  etc.  He  mentioned 
these  things  first  because  they  seemed  to  him 
to  be  in  peril,  just  as  the  herd  asked  first  for 
food  and  blankets. 

I  cut  short  his  protests  with  a  request  to  sit, 
an  apology  for  the  box  that  stood  for  a  chair, 
and  offered  a  cigarette.  His  questions  were 
thus  answered  and  then  forgotten.  We  talked 
about  the  war  and  about  America,  which  he 
had  planned  to  visit,  "but  he  was  afraid  now 
he  never  could  see,"  and  he  asked  if  I  knew 

[  83  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

Anne  Morgan  and  Anita  Stewart  and  Mrs. 
Vanderbilt,  whom  "Papa  had  talked  of  so 
much"! 

The  morning  before  he  was  directing  a  ma- 
chine gun  until  the  soldiers  at  his  side  were  shot, 
one  in  the  chest,  and  one  killed  outright.  Then 
he  heard  the  firing  of  the  Americans  behind  him 
as  well  as  in  front — on  all  sides.  "I  talked 
with  the  'unteroffizier'  who  had  been  at  the 
front  since  19 14.  I  told  him  that  when  it  was 
useless  I  would  not  waste  blood,  either  German 
or  American.  —  I  wish  so  much  to  send  word 
%u  hause  that  I  am  not  dead.  You  see  a  few 
hours  earlier  I  had  sent  back  word  that  we 
would  hold  the  position  at  all  costs  —  that  was 
the  last  word  so  they  will  think  I  am  killed." 

Another,  just  nineteen,  wore  a  cumbersome 
iron  helmet  two  sizes  too  large,  like  a  cavern 
around  his  girl's  features.  I  would  not  have  had 
the  heart  to  be  stern  with  him  even  in  the 
schoolroom.  In  war —  kill  him.^  Good  Lord! 

With  others  it  was  n't  so.  The  officers  were 
such  capable  dunderheads.  They  talked  their 
newspaper  nonsense  so  seriously  and  held  such 

[84] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

fervent  shallow  beliefs  that  one  thought  of 
them  in  command  of  the  thousands  of  animals 
in  the  next  cage  and  understood  how  very 
dangerous  the  combination  could  be. 

One  of  them,  a  Hamburg  shipowner's  son, 
who  solemnly  lumped  Roumania  and  America 
together  as  about  on  equal  terms,  said  equally 
solemnly:  "One  of  our  ships,  the  'Hohefelde,' 
is  now  the  'Long  Beach.'  She  is  carrying  Amer- 
ican troops.  That  is  a  good  thing.  My  father 
says  it  is  very  bad  for  a  ship  to  lie  idle  in  the 
water.  It  is  much  better  for  the  ship  to  have  it 
doing  something."  You  have  to  use  a  hammer 
made  in  a  shell  works  to  get  sense  into  a  noodle 
like  that.  I  talked  with  him  very  reasonably  for 
some  time,  but  it  was  with  profound  satisfac- 
tion that  I  finally  turned  on  him  and  said  very 
warlike:  "We  will  smash  your  line  all  right.  Of 
course,  every  one  knows  that  now.  And  then 
we  will  smash  you  out  of  France  and  then  over 
the  Rhine,  and  the  longer  you  stand  up  for 
smashing  the  worse  your  country  will  be  off." 
I  left  him  with  his  jaw  polishing  his  shoes. 

The  animals  —  those  shapeless,  grinning  pri- 

[  85  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

vate  soldiers  —  were  amusing.  They  took  a  lot 
of  the  seriousness  out  of  the  war.  They  are  so 
damn  glad  to  be  caught,  so  content  to  be  alive 
and  in  the  hands  of  Americans,  so  sure  "the 
war  has  lasted  too  long,  much  too  long,"  and 
so  hilarious  over  the  fact  that  for  them  the  war 
is  auSy  that  it  was  cheering  to  see  them  —  es- 
pecially so  many  of  them ! 

Every  officer  asks:  "Why  is  America  in  the 
war?"  Some,  a  good  many,  really  are  puzzled, 
they  want  to  learn.  Others  are  curious  to  see  if 
you  will  repeat  idealisms  as  sober  war  explana- 
tions. When  you  do  —  they  smile  sarcastically. 
But  their  smile  fades  if  you  take  the  trouble  to 
insist,  and  if  you  ask  them  what  it  will  mean 
to  Germany  if  what  you  say  is  really  correct. 
When  you  tell  them  that  they  are  prisoners, 
that  thousands  more  are  prisoners,  that  Amer- 
icans are  savage  killers  because  they  want  noth- 
ing out  of  the  war,  some  of  these  sarcastic  Prus- 
sian Guard  officers  almost  quail.  It  is  very 
curious. 


XIX  ^ 

General  Headquarters,  A.E.F.^ 

October  i,  1918 
These  last  six  days  I  have  put  in  talking  to  the 
enemy,  questioning  him.  Like  all  the  rest  of  it 
over  here,  it's  already  something  stale  for  me. 
Or  ■  would  be  if  I  regarded  it  solely  from  the 
standpoint  of  experience. 

In  the  great  wire  cages  south  of ,  a  long 

way  south,  we  mixed  with  the  "  catch."  Picture  a 
muddy  hillside,  some  acres  contained  in  barbed 
wire  patrolled  by  a  few  Yanks  with  long  bay- 
onets, and  with  cattlelike  inhabitants,  dun- 
gray,  shapeless  animals,  standing  around  or 
lying  around  most  of  the  time,  muddy  lumps 
in  the  muddy  prospect.  They  look  so  much  alike 
and  so  drab.  If  the  sun  comes  out  the  more 
energetic  peel  off  some  of  their  wrappings  and 
wash  a  bit  or  rub  themselves.  They  all  cling 
closely  to  their  poor  possessions,  a  blanket,  a 

1  This  letter  is  reprinted  from  the  New  Republic  of  De- 
cember 14,  191 8. 

1 87] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

mess  kit,  an  extra  cap  or  coat.  You  can  have 
no  idea  what  "kannonenf utter"  means  until 
you  've  seen  a  mass  of  several  thousand  German 
privates.  The  German  army  system  takes  all  — 
yokels  and  fine  boys,  fathers  and  free  journey- 
men —  and  mashes  them  into  mass  formation, 
abolishes  their  souls. 

Suppose  you  question  these  miserable  men, 
with  nothing  left  but  their  dirty  wrappings, 
sleeping  on  the  ground  in  the  rain.  Ask  them 
about  their  treatment.  Every  one  will  instantly 
respond  that  his  treatment  is  fine,  that  he  is 
content,  that  he  is  glad  to  be  in  that  cage.  He 
is  free  in  that  cage.  Free  from  the  war  and  the 
German  machine! 

It  is  hard,  indeed,  to  imagine  these  men  as 
they  were  a  few  hours  ago,  "good  soldiers"  try- 
ing to  kill  Americans.  I  passed  a  group  which 
was  waiting  blindly  for  the  return  of  some 
American  officer  who  had  told  them  to  stand 
there,  perhaps  an  hour  before.  They  looked  so 
wretched,  without  a  spark  of  life.  "Achtung!" 
one  of  them  cried  to  the  right  of  me;  one  at  the 
left  also  called  sharply,  "Achtung!"  (Atten- 
[88] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

tion!)  The  nine  or  ten  sparkless  forms  hurled 
themselves  upright,  hands  to  trouser  seams 
rigidly,  ramrods  from  ears  to  heels.  Because  I 
stopped  and  looked  at  them,  because  I  was  an 
officer,  "Achtung"  sprang  warningly  from  lips 
and  "Achtung"  smote  their  weary  limbs  into 
line.  I  wanted  to  laugh  or  swear  at  the  poor 
fools.  Instead  I  walked  hastily  away. 

But  they're  nowhere  near  so  good  soldiers  as 
they  were  three  months  ago  and  far  below  what 
they  were  a  year  ago.  German  morale  is  crum- 
bling—  it's  not  wrecked  yet,  but  it's  going. 
"The  war  is  too  long,  much  too  long."  That's 
what  the  prisoner  says,  that's  what  all  the 
German  soldiers  are  feeling  strongly. 

One  or  two  astonishing  stories  we  have  ob- 
tained. One  young  officer  is  anxious  to  go  back 
into  Germany  to  tell  his  people,  "hochgeboren" 
diplomatic  folk,  what  the  Americans  are  like, 
and  what  they  really  are  fighting  for.  But  the 
most  amazing  is  the  story  of  Gefreite  F.  W., 
with  the  ribbon  of  the  first  and  second  class 
Iron  Cross,  a  "Sozial  Demokrat  geboren."  This 
stark,  creased,  desperate-looking  soldier,  to  all 

[89] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

outward  appearance  nothing  but  a  "good  sol- 
dier" told  us  his  story  in  bitten-off  sentences 
and  in  a  postcard.  In  August,  19 14,  he  had 
been  mobilized.  In  four  years  of  war  he  had  had 
sixteen  days  of  leave.  He  spent  those  four  years 
in  front  of  the  first-line  trenches^  gunner  of  a 
fifteen-millimetre  piece.  His  job  was  to  lie  out 
in  a  shell-hole  with  his  gun,  ahead  of  his  own 
infantry.  He  was  put  there  because  he  was  a 
Social  Democrat.  That  was  his  explanation. 
Not  even  when  his  wife  died  did  he  get  leave  to 
go  to  the  funeral.  He  was  forty-two  years  old, 
a  butcher  once,  employing  men,  with  a  good 
business,  and  a  house  which  he  owned,  and  he 
had  a  postcard  picture  of  it  if  we  wanted  to  see 
it.  The  business  had  been  sold  for  war  taxes. 
The  baby  died  three  months  after  the  mother. 
His  own  mother  was  paralyzed,  seventy-nine 
years  old.  He  must  have  killed  hundreds  of 
men.  At  Cambrai,  where  he  was  out  in  front 
of  his  own  infantry,  the  British  sent  eighteen 
waves  against  him  and  none  broke  through. 

"Did  he  know  Americans  were  before  him  in 
this  last  fight?" 

[  90  1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

Yes,  he  had  heard  so.  And  in  the  fog  on  that 
morning  two  days  before,  he  saw  the  Americans, 
some  passing  to  left,  others  walking  to  right, 
and  he  said  then  and  there,  "I  will  shoot  no 
American."  He  swore  he  fired  not  a  shot.  When 
some  American  soldiers  called  out  in  German 
to  him,  he  rose  up  from  his  lone  shell-hole  fort 
and  surrendered. 

"But  if  there  had  been  Negroes  before  me  I  'd 
have  shot  to  the  last  shell,"  he  added.  It  was 
this  postscript  that  convinced  me  he  was  telling 
the  truth. 

We  asked  him  who  caused  the  war.  "Die 
Weltspitzbiiben,"  he  said;  "the  rascals,  the 
Prussian  landlords."  —  "Scheidemann?"  — 
"He  spoke  pretty  well."  —  "Haase.f*  Lede- 
bour?"  —  " Ach,  they  told  the  truth."  — "Lieb- 
knecht?"  —  "He  talked  too  much."  On  one  of 
his  rare  leaves  in  a  cafe  in  Stettin  a  captain  of 
the  Vaterlandspartei  had  said  that  the  war 
must  go  on.  W.  had  said  to  him,  "You  fool,  if 
you  had  lain  out  there  in  that  devilish  Schwein- 
erei  for  four  years  in  the  mud,  you'd  have 
reason  to  know  better  —  you  office  slacker." 

[91  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

W.  said  that  the  captain  said  he'd  shoot  the 
soldier,  and  the  soldier  says  he  answered,  "You 

,  you  reach  back,  and  I  '11  slit  your 

throat."  His  echt  Deutsch  cuss-words  were 
venomous.  I  questioned  him  closely,  but  he 
stuck  to  it.  "Do  many  common  soldiers  speak 
like  that  to  officers?"  "Many  think  it,  the 
greatest  part  think  it,  and  more  dare  to  say  it 
now  than  ever  did  before." 

Finally  we  looked  at  the  postcard  of  his 
house  shown  by  this  haggard,  wolfish  soldier 
with  the  broken  teeth,  the  scars,  the  cropped, 
mangy-looking  head,  the  ploughed  forehead, 
and  the  almost  glazed,  glassy  eyes.  We  got  a 
shock.  In  front  of  the  common  dwelling  with  its 
fenced-in  yard  stood  a  man,  a  round,  prosper- 
ous person,  obviously  in  the  pose  of  owner,  al- 
most a  self-important  person,  with  a  high  choker 
collar,  a  noticeable  tie,  and  large  waistcoat,  with 
jowls  and  a  well-tended  mustache,  with  his 
blond  hair  slicked  down  on  either  side  of  a  neat 
"part"  —  ridiculously  the  type  of  the  fattened 
bourgeois.  He  was  so  prosperous,  with  his  arm 
akimbo  and  his  newspaper  crumpled  in  hand. 
[92  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

He  explained  that  that  was  he  —  that  was 
Herr  W.  in  peace. 

We  simply  did  not  believe  him.  He  explained 
that  he'd  lost  forty-eight  pounds  in  four  years 
of  war.  I  looked  sharply  at  the  card  and  the 
face  and  could  make  out  the  nose  and  brows 
the  same  —  not  a  thing  else. 

That  man,  body  and  life,  was  as  smashed  as 
these  French  villages  by  the  war.  He  had  stayed 
out  in  the  trenches,  outside  even  of  the  trenches, 
hating  the  "Spitzbiiben"  who  put  him  there. 
Ralph  remarked,  "He  has  only  his  anger  left." 
I  rejoined,  "But  he  can't  do  anything  even  with 
his  anger."  For,  as  with  all  Germans,  despite 
the  hatred  that  could  make  him  swear,  there 
seemed  in  him  no  spark  of  revolution,  no  hint  of 
organizing  resistance.  He  had  killed  hundreds 
of  men  at  the  behest  of  "  Spitzbiiben  "  whom  he 
railed  at  and  who  smashed  him  and  his,  but  it 
never  seemed  to  occur  to  him  that  he  could  do 
anything  whatever  about  it. 


XX 

General  Headquarters,  A.E.F., 

October  4.,  1918 
We're  all  in  the  grip  of  things,  big  things.  My 
mind  often  turns  to  Mills  and  Crawford  and 
Barrett  —  three  Evening  Sun  men  killed  here. 
I  am  ridiculously  safe  way  back  here  and  my 
work  will  never  put  me  in  danger;  I  do  not 
like  that.  I  wish  I  were  a  fighter  up  front;  the 
thing —  is  it  dishonorable  to  confess  it.^^ —  the 
only  thing  that  makes  me  feel  some  content 
here  is  that  I  can  so  get  back  to  you.  That 's  not 
very  noble,  I  'm  afraid.  I  could  be  a  damn  good 
fighter,  and  then  I  would  have  an  entirely  dif- 
ferent view  of  things  —  that  my  life  was  not 
mine  and  so  I  could  not  think  of  my  life  in  re- 
lation to  anybody,  even  you.  Now  it  is  only 
secondarily  I  say,  "Of  course,  some  fool  chance 
shell  or  bomb  may  not  let  me  see  My  Girl 
again"  but  the  chance  is  so  remote  that  I 
can  write  of  it  to  you. 
At  this  desk,  damn  it,  and  in  the  car,  north 

[94] 


^cr  il3orten,  wo  ficf)  bie  ^cntfrf)cn 

4  3af)rc   lang  bcljauvtet    ftattcu,   rourbe   in    27    <Stunbcn 

Don  ben    5tmcrifancrn  ciugenomnicn. 


^Baasm  Sront  dm  12.  ^tpttmhtt  ftfl^. 
•••••••  Sroiit  am  13,  ^cptcuibct  fruft. 


390    Ouabvrttiilonicicr   luurbcn    crobcrt. 
Die  3a^l  ber  ^cfiuirtcucii  betraot  15.000. 

THE  MEANING  OF  ST.-MIHIEL 

Every  soldier  wants  a  map.  American  Propaganda  provided  one  which  carried  its  own  lesson. 
Dropped  over  the  German  lines  after  September  13,  1918. 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

of  here,  I'm  as  safe  as  in  Washington  where 
street-cars  and  autos  make  life  more  dangerous 
than  at  the  wars.  I  get  discouraged  at  seeing  no 
war.  I  never  yet  have  seen  an  enemy  gun  flash 
and  very  few  enemy  shells  burst  or  bombs,  and 
hearing  our  barrage  is  nothing.  You  can  hear 
it  as  far  as  thunder  and  it  gives  you  as  little 
sense  of  alarm.  I'm  out  of  the  war  from  that 
standpoint — and  I  'm  rather  humble,  especially 
on  a  day  like  this  when  we  are  again  striking 
up  Argonne  way,  as  you  will  hear  to-morrow, 
long  before  you  get  this. 

Is  n't  it  astounding,  the  events  of  the  past 
two  weeks,  even  of  the  past  six  days.f*  The 
A.E.F.'s  derisive  slogan  of  "Hell,  Heaven,  or 
Hoboken  by  Christmas"  may,  it  is  barely  pos- 
sible, prove  Hoboken.  I  do  not  believe  it  or  even 
speculate  on  it,  but  I  know  well  the  war  will  be 
won  by  next  year  for  an  absolute  certainty. 


XXI 

General  Headquarters^  J.E.F., 

October  6,  191 8 
All  day  on  this  memorable  Sunday  I  've  wished 
you  were  here,  all  day  I  knew  you  were  thinking 
over  the  same  great  news  as  I,  and  wanting  to 
talk  it  over.  Finally,  worn  out  with  speculating 
over  war  and  peace,  I  took  a  long,  fast  walk, 
the  first  in  many  weeks,  and  had  dinner  at  La 
Tourelle,  loafing  off  to  the  "Y"  for  coffee,  and 
read  the  lightest  thing  I  could  find,  "La  Sourire 
de  France,"  and  found  in  it  such  a  highly  amus- 
ing, indecent,  and  wholly  French  story  that  I 
must  needs  send  it  to  you. 

This  sheet  and  La  Vie  Parisienne  are  seen 
everywhere  here  —  striking  side-lights  on  the 
ravening  woman-hunger  which  war  begets.  You 
take  a  youth  and  train  him  vigorously  and  make 
a  fine  animal  of  him,  and  then  deprive  him  of 
women,  and  the  wonder  is  that  all  armies  are  n't 
a  mere  devastation  for  anything  female  in  reach. 
Add  to  this  two  circumstances,  that  the  women 

1 96] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

about  here  are  deprived  of  their  men,  —  some 
for  years,  —  and  that  the  soldier  is  bound  for  a 
place  which  may  be  his  last  on  earth,  or  just 
returned  from  a  place  where  life  was  so  des- 
perate that  every  good  thing  this  earth. affords 
seems  his  by  right  of  reward,  —  and  the  wonder 
is  that  there  is  any  restraint  on  either  side.  The 
soldier  at  the  front  lives  by  taking,  —  he  takes 
cover,  food,  blankets,  equipment,  furniture, 
everything  that  he  must  have  to  exist  when 
away  from  civilization  wherein  he  ordinarily 
earns  these  things,  —  also' he  takes  lives,  and 
naturally  he  feels  afraid  thereafter  of  taking 
nothing.  For  the  women  here  he's  a  soldier  and 
a  savior  of  her  country,  a  new  kind  of  a  man, 
and  a  bigger.  Finally,  war  is  two  thirds  waiting, 
—  so  far  as  the  soldier  is  concerned,  —  and  it's 
all  waiting  so  far  as  women  are  concerned. 

In  some  companies  there  is  almost  none  of 
"that. "  Officers  are  the  explanation.  They  have 
appealed  to  their  men  to  be  fine  men  —  and  the 
American  soldier  who  has  stood  up  under  shell- 
fire,  because  his  officer  told  him  to,  has  also 
stood  up  against  the  woman-hunger  because 

[97] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

the  officer  appealed  to  his  chivalry.  The  Amer- 
ican soldier  is  amazingly  responsive  to  appeal 
to  his  better  self. 

The  rage  for  women  shows  up  oddly.  In  the 
ugly  fashion  of  the  obscene  postcards  with 
which  the  Boche  prisoners  are  lousy  and  in  the 
amusing  fashion  of  these  "French"  weeklies, 
which,  the  Lord  be  praised,  are  provided  by  the 
"Y."  Think  of  me  chuckling  over  so  absurdly 
an  indecent  story  as  this.  At  least,  it  was  a  wel- 
come relief  from  speculating  on  what  the  Pres- 
ident must  say  to  the  Teuton  peace  oif er.  I  have 
had  a  headache  over  that.^ 

Madame  Margot,  my  toothless  landlady, 
burst  in  on  me  with  the  hot  water  this  morning, 
saying  breathlessly:  "One  says  that  Germany 
offers  peace.  It  is  official.  An  officer  of  the  'Etat 
Major'  told  me.  Oh,  Monsieur  le  Capitaine,  is 
it  true?"  My  opinion  was  then  of  no  value,  as 
I  did  n't  have  my  shirt  on  yet  to  go  out. 

At  G.H.Q.  I  learned  it  was  true.  At  noon  you 
should  have  seen  this  village  and  all  the  villages 
in  France.  Every  street  was  lined  with  people 

1  See  Appendix. 

1 98] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

all  in  one  position,  bent  over  a  paper.  All  the 
world  was  reading  the  Paris  papers.  Men, 
women,  youths,  soldiers,  Americans.  They 
devoured  the  papers  with  the  great  news.  It  is 
the  only  news  they  are  interested  in. 

There  was  the  street  full  of  them  reading. 
Round  a  corner  came  a  black  crucifix  borne  by 
two  cheerful  little  shavers ;  then  a  priest  in  lace 
and  a  hearse  with  four  soldiers  in  faded  blue  at 
either  side,  guns  strung  rather  carelessly  on 
their  backs.  The  coffin  was  hidden  in  the  gay 
splash  of  the  tri-color.  Burying  another  soldier. 
The  readers  in  the  street  briefly  uncovered  and 
went  on  reading.  Behind  the  hearse  walked 
exactly  seven  persons  —  five  women  in  deep, 
deep  black,  a  bit  of  a  girl  in  black,  and  a  non- 
descript, diseased-looking  young-old  man.  I  Ve 
passed  a  number  of  such  funerals  here,  and  the 
pillars  of  the  church  are  hung  with  long  rolls  of 
*'Morts  dans  le  champs  d'honneur."  Burying 
under  the  tri-color  and  at  the  sound  of  a  volley 
is  so  common,  I  doubt  that  even  the  passionate 
readers  in  the  street  noted  the  funeral  as  giving 
point  to  the  news. 

[99] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

What  does  Paris  say  ?  And  what  London?  I '11 
bet  the  cables  are  burning  under  the  cold  At- 
lantic with  advice  to  the  White  House.  For 
London  and  Paris  cannot  say  a  word  —  they're 
choked.  Once  again  all  the  world  turns  and 
waits  breathless  for  President  Wilson.  And 
what  he  says  I  must  get  ready  to  scatter  over 
the  lines. 

What  should  he  sslj?  I  don't  know.  Perhaps 
Generals  Foch  and  Pershing  should  say  more 
with  their  guns.  They  might  in  two  months 
really  democratize  Germany.  Things  move  at 
once  so  fast  and  so  slowly  there.  Prince  Max  of 
Baden:  that's  a  pretty  poor  stick  for  a  demo- 
crat. Erzberger,  Groher:  fearfully  bourgeois. 
Scheidemann:  his  greatest  asset  is  that  the 
Kaiser  hates  him.  Very  bureaucratic  this  revo- 
lutionary government  looks  to  me.  I  suspect 
the  whole  crew  has  a  fearful  eye  out,  not  on 
Wilson,  or  the  Western  Front,  but  on  the  Left, 
the  real  Left,  the  desperate  masses  of  Germany. 

If  Wilson  speaks  from  his  own  stem  heart  I 
think  he  will  hit  it  right.  We  '11  know  before  you 
get  this. 


XXII 

General  Headquarters,  A.E.F., 

October  15,  1918 
These  are  tremendous  days.  Fritz  is  running 
out  of  France.  Wilson  to-day  threw  his  bomb- 
shell.^ Now  we  shall  see  whether  German 
changes  are  real,  or  rather  how  real  they  are. 
If  German  civilian  morale  is  still  high  —  a 
year  more  of  war  or  half  a  year,  rather.  If  Ger- 
man civilians  are  cracking  —  peace  may  come 
quick.  The  revolution  in  Germany  is  real 
enough;  how  deep  it  is  is  another  matter.  If 
Max  of  Baden  goes  out  and,  say  Solf,  follows 
him  in  and  then  out  as  quickly,  if  Scheidemann 
goes  the  same  gate,  also  in  quick  fashion  — 
then  look  out.  For  Germany  will  go  Bolshevik 
—  or  damn  near.  At  present  the  revolution  is 
"  surface  "  so  far  as  is  manifested  in  the  Govern- 
ment, but  I  am  inclined  to  think  our  experts 
have  overestimated  the  German  civilian  morale. 
I  'm  inclined  to  see  signs  of  my  old  theory  — 

*  See  Appendix. 

[  loi  1 


^^^^^^^  ^'Ja.^^^^  Adventures  in  Propaganda 

that  Germany  would  crack  and  crack  suddenly. 
The  German  people  —  this  is  my  guess  —  are 
beginning  to  want  peace  as  badly  as  the  Rus- 
sians did,  and  are  determined  to  have  it.  Then 
good-bye,  Kaiser;  good-bye  several  more  kings. 
Perhaps  my  desire  to  see  you  soon  is  getting 
the  better  of  my  alleged  political  judgment. 

The  thing  against  this  is  the  German  army 
morale,  which  is  still  high,  and  the  German 
army  is  capable  of  a  devil  of  a  lot  of  hard  fight- 
ing yet.  Now  comes  the  big  retreat  —  Lille  is 
going,  perhaps  the  last  great  lines  of  stand  in 
France  and  Flanders  are  going;  German  army 
morale  may  go  badly  to  pieces  and  not  revive 
in  time  for  a  real  stand-up  fight  on  their  own 
soil.  Add  this  to  growing  panic  at  home,  and 
add  to  all  the  German  trait  of  morbid  despond- 
ency, and,  bang!  Germany  will  go  the  whole 
hog  in  giving  up  Alsace-Lorraine  and  even 
Polish  Prussia.  On  the  other  hand,  a  really 
truly  —  so  far  as  geography  goes  —  war  of  de- 
fense, waged  by  a  really  truly  attempted  liber- 
alized government,  and  it'll  be  a  long  war. 

The  great  part  of  the  President's  answer  to- 
l  102  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

day  was,  of  course,  the  last  part,  directed  to 
the  German  nation,  and  pointing  out  the  direct 
connection  between  peace  and  the  destruction 
of  Kaiserism.  France  will  go  wild  over  the  first 
part  of  the  note,  which  refers  Berlin  to  the 
military  for  an  armistice  —  to  Foch,  France's 
idol.  France  will  go  wild,  too,  over  the  note's 
attack  on  the  German  burning  of  French  towns. 
France  has  too  many  wounds  to  think  much  of 
peace  now.  Wilson  must  look  for  his  main  back- 
ing for  a  just  peace  to  the  British  Left.  I  must 
say  he'll  get  more  real  backing  there  than  in 
America.  May  he,  better  yet,  count  on  the 
backing  of  his  own  austere  sense  of  what 's  right, 
of  what 's  the  greatest  contribution  he,  Woodrow 
Wilson,  can  make  to  history. 

This  mountain  country  is  pretty  wet,  foggy, 
cold,  and  dead  these  days.  Already  it's  the 
devil  of  a  life  to  have  to  lead  in  the  trenches  or 
in  open  warfare.  Clothes  wet,  food  cold  and 
uncertain  —  that's  what  this  weather  means 
to  fighting  men.  There  are  some  good  days,  and 
through  it  all  the  A.E.F.  boys  are  drilling 
ahead  —  making  a  really  great  record.  As  Ger- 
[  103  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

many  swings  out  of  France  she  will  naturally  — 
any  one  can  see  —  pile  more  and  more  men  up 
in  front  of  the  American  sector  and  hang  on 
like  grim  death.  —  But  on  les  aura! 

I  spent  two  days  in  Paris,  jumping  from 
there  in  one  day  through  here  and  up  front- 
wards. Marion  is  now  up  there.  I  learned  his 
location  on  the  way  down  from  Paris  and  was 
pleased  to  make  my  route  next  day  take  me 
through  his  headquarters  town.  I  motored  to 
the  barracks  —  a  great  stretch  of  interminable 
"Adrians"  on  a  tramped-up  hillside.  His  unit 
had  left  the  night  before.  He  was  only  about 
fifteen  miles  farther  off,  but  I  could  not  find 
the  time  to  make  the  detour.  I  motored  hard 
and  fast  those  days.  Up  early  and  to  bed  late, 
eating  in  many  towns.  One  night  I  spent  four 
hours  trying  to  find  a  needle  in  a  haystack. 
The  needle  was  an  aviation  field  and  no  larger 
than  that.  It  was  the  devil  of  a  job.  See  me 
climbing  guide-posts  to  read  the  tiny  lettering, 
rattling  at  village  midnight  windows,  behind 
which  startled  old  women  cried,  "Qui  est  la?" 
and  were  too  alarmed  to  tell  me  even  the  name 
[  104  I 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

of  their  village.  See  me  taken  in  by  a  pair  of 
numbskull  poilus  in  the  road,  who  knew  noth- 
ing about  the  "champs  d'aviation  Americain 

pres  de  B ,"  and  then  began  to  recall  it, 

and  then,  intoxicated  by  the  pleasure  of  giving 
full  information  to  some  one  so  visibly  gratified 
for  it,  supplying  me  with  complete  directions, 
all  wrong,  —  all  the  product  of  polite  desire  to 
please  and  of  fertile  imagination.  As  I  found 
out,  after  thrashing  over  miles  of  roads  and 
landing  in  a  village  in  the  squarely  opposite 
direction  of  the  right  one.  But  when  the  "  C.  in 
C. "  orders  —  one  gets  there  at  last. 

Did  I  tell  you  of  the  man  walking  home  at 
midnight.?  I  was  trying  to  find  —  let  us  call  it 
Sommeilles.  A  figure  with  a  pack  aback  showed 
up  in  the  auto  lights  and  I  jumped  out  and 
asked  him  the  way. 

"I  am  from  Germany,"  replied  the  figure. 

"What?" 

"I  am  from  Germany!"  again. 

Seeing  that  I  had  a  fou  to  deal  with,  I  irri- 
tably demanded  if  he  knew  the  road  to  Som- 
meilles. 

[losl 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

"It  IS  my  home.  I  am  going  there.  I  am 
from  —  " 

"But  then  you  can  guide  me?  Then,  montez 
s'll  vous  plait."  He  thanked  me  and  got  aboard, 
and  in  the  plainer  light  looked  tired,  calm,  and 
sane. 

"You  are  from  Germany.'*  When.?"  I  asked. 

"Ten  days  ago,"  he  answered.  He  was  a 

repatriL  He  had  missed  the  train  at  R . 

That  was  why  he  was  walking  with  a  pack  at 
midnight.  He  wanted  to  get  home.  After  four 
years.  Not  a  soldier,  he  was  among  the  civilians 
enleves  when  the  Germans  first  entered  France. 
He  was  forty-eight.  His  wife  would  be  waiting 
for  him.  But  his  boy  —  sixteen  when  he  was 
taken  oif  —  was  now  twenty,  and  at  the  front. 
The  boy  would  not  be  waiting  at  the  door. 

He  told  me  a  curious  thing.  For  weeks  past, 
whenever  an  Allied  plane  came  over  the  town, 
Rastatt,  where  he  worked,  no  matter  whether 
it  was  marked  as  a  French  or  British  plane,  the 
inhabitants  would  invariably  cry  out:  "An 
American!  Ach!  the  Americans!"  A  little  hint 
that,  despite  all  their  Press,  their  defiance,  and 
[  io6] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

their  undoubted  bravery  —  deep  down  in  every 
German  heart  is  the  consciousness  of  America; 
in  their  hearts  they  know  the  war  is  lost  and 
they  know  why.  That  is  what  is  eating  the 
heart  of  Germany.  That's  another  reason  why 
I  think  Germany  will  crack  suddenly  and  badly. 


XXIII 

General  Headquarters,  A,E,F.y 

October  17,  1918 
So  delightful  a  letter  from  you  dated  September 
21-23,  with  so  sad  a  postscript.  It  was  the  first 
word  I'd  had  of  Harry  Thrasher  —  that  he  is 
dead.  I  am  trying  to  find  out  how  and  where  he 
died.  It  was  your  clipping,  too,  that  gave  me 
the  first  word  of  Quincy  Mills's  death.  The 
sculptor  turned  soldier  died  in  the  profession  he 
adopted  with  so  much  ardor.  Likely  he  died 
gladly  —  but  what  a  waste. 

It  stays  rainy  and  foggy  here  day  in  and 
day  out.  Not  a  clear  day  in  weeks.  These  are 
moving  times  despite  the  weather  —  forward 
moving.  My  work  goes  well.  Ralph  Hayes  is 
here  now.  We  lunch  together  and  argue  great 
points  to  a  finish. 

The  personnel  office  just  'phones  that  Lieuten- 
ant Thrasher  was  killed  in  action  on  August 
II.  I  suppose  in  the  Jaulgonne  region.  So  he  died 
fighting!  Graham  Wallas  said  in  London:  "I 
[  108  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

hope  that  your  President,  in  considering  the 
reasons  for  peace,  will  take  account  of  the  pos- 
sible loss  of  life.  The  loss  of  a  million  men  is  in 
itself  a  very  strong  factor  to  be  taken  into  ac- 
count." So  far  our  losses  have  been  only  what 
was  to  be  expected.  Wild  rumors  of  colossal 
killing  are  false  —  based  on  the  severe  losses 
suffered  by  certain  units,  and  not  at  all  true  of 
the  A.E.F.  as  a  whole.  But  somehow  the  death 
of  one  or  two  soldiers  whom  one  knew  means 
more  than  the  death  of  an  army  corps. 

This  evening  I  went  off  with  R.  H.  to  get  him 
bestowed  in  his  billet.  Why?  Because  I  can  talk 
so  much  more  French  than  he  that  I  can  almost 
be  said  to  talk  French  —  compared  with  him. 
During  the  interview  I  'd  leave  him  stalled  every 
now  and  then,  and  though  he'd  shrug  his  shoul- 
ders for  all  he  was  worth  the  words  would  n't 
come  and  the  young  Lieutenant  would  politely 
say:  "Now,  you  old  crab,  come  across  with 
some  of  that  lingo.  Tell  her  I  don't  want  the 
stove  in  now  —  I  want  to  burn  wood  in  the 
grate."  I  've  paid  simply  no  attention  to  French 
since  over  here  —  much  less  than  you  do  I 
[  109  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

know  still.  But  I  managed  to  tell  Madame  that 
the  electric  light  (which  R.  H.,  the  lucky  dog, 
has  —  I  haven't)  ought  to  have  a  string  to 
lower  it,  and  the  bed  should  be  nearer  the 
window. 

Ralph  is  a  great  stickler  for  military  eti- 
quette, all  the  more  so  because  colonels  and  gen- 
erals are  continually  recognizing  him  among  the 
ranks  of  the  lowly  and  singing  out,  "Why, 
hello,  Hayes,  when  did  you  blow  in?"  All 
oifer  him  jobs  and  he's  still  questing  after  one 
"  where  I'll  get  shot  at."  That  he  must  have,  he 
says.  Meanwhile  he's  here  at  a  desk  near  my 
room. 


XXIV 

General  Headquarters^  A.E.F., 

October  24,  1918 
Returned  from  two  days'  whirl  wherein  I  must 
have  motored  three  hundred  miles,  way  up 
north,  then  over  to  the  Vosges  and  back.  By 
great  luck  one  of  the  two  days  was  clear;  the 
forests  a  flame  of  yellows  and  reds,  though  never 
so  red  and  gold  as  Ohio  woods.  All  the  trip  was 
old  to  me  except  the  end  of  the  first  afternoon, 
when  I  made  a  detour  to  pursue  Marion  and 
found  him,  and  the  second  day  was  all  new. 
None  of  these  trips  takes  me  to  the  fighting,  I  'm 
sorry  to  say.  It's  with  real  resolution  that  I 
stick  to  the  line  of  duty  and  don't  go  where  I 
might  find  a  grave  with  the  inscription,  "He 
was  looking  for  it." 

I  was  thinking  deeply  of  the  German  third 
note  as  I  started.-^  It  had  banged  open  the  door 
to  peace  again,  it  seemed  to  me.  The  great  argu- 
ment for  peace  was  once  more  in  the  streets  as  I 

*  See  Appendix. 

[  III  1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

drove  out  of  town  —  another  of  the  poverty- 
stricken  little  war  funerals,  the  same  hearse 
with  the  same  flag,  the  same  old  six  soldiers 
with  their  guns  awry,  walking  at  either  side, 
the  same  two  little  boys  with  the  black  crucifix 
ahead,  the  seven  weary  plodders  behind,  again 
six  women  and  one  old  man. 

I  followed  again  the  provinces  of  war  —  the 
interior  roads  with  few  army  wagons,  and  rarely 
a  plane  overhead;  then  the  region  of  truck  trains 
parked  along  the  way;  then  the  province  of  bar- 
racks, light  railways,  and  railhead  dumps;  and 
toward  the  frontiers,  woods  full  of  hidden  men 
and  munitions,  planes  overhead,  villages  of 
many  troops  and  few  civilians,  up  to  the  land  of 
real  war  where  the  light  railways  sneak  off  and 
hide,  and  wire  is  plentiful,  and  there  are  dug- 
outs, and  guns  can  be  heard,  —  and  some  miles 
off  is  its  farther  border  of  trenches  and  O.P.'s 
and  bullets.  I  'm  always  leading  up  to  the  climax, 
but  I  Ve  not  yet  seen  the  fourth  act  of  the  play. 

On  these  trips  I  eat  and  sleep  in  many  places, 
but  always  comfortably,  disgustingly  so.  Per- 
haps I  lunch  at  some  "Popottes  des  Allies,"  a 

[    112   ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

French  officers'  mess  open  to  Americans  and 
monopolized  by  them —  some  great  eating-room 
that  was  once  an  assembly  hall,  where  one  eats 
excellent  food,  vin  compris,  for  four  francs.  Or 
I  dine  in  the  biggest  hotel  in  some  small  city,  the 
room  one  jam  of  American  officers,  with  a  few 
French,  some  "veteran  war  correspondents," 
and  a  civilian  or  two.  "What  do  you  think  of 
these  invading  Americans,  ces  enfants  terribles?" 
I  ask  the  banker-looking  civilian  opposite  me. 
"Ha,  they  are  marvellous.  So  many  strangers 
in  France,  Anglais,  Beiges,  Portugais,  Senegal- 
ese." That  last  seems  to  call  for  a  retort,  but  I 
have  n't  French  enough  at  command  to  make 
it  and  be  polite  —  I  wanted  to  say,  "And 
Boche."  "They  are  so  large,  so  young,  so  full 
of  sante,"  he  goes  on.  "And  toujours  souriant 
(always  smiling)."  That  seemed  to  amaze  him. 
"Via,"  he  cries,  shrugging,  "there,  always 
smiling.  It  rains,  they  smile."  "And  in  the 
trenches?"  "They  smile!  I  warrant,"  he  says. 
Another  meal  it's  a  blue  officer  opposite. 
He  has  one  of  those  mediaeval  French  ducal  pro- 
files, high  brow,  straight  nose,  full  curling  lips, 

[  113  1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

deeply  indented  just  under  the  lower  lip,  and 
jutting  spurt  of  beard  on  his  jutting  chin.  He 
speaks  English,  and  of  course  immediately  opens 
up  on  me. 

In  his  town  he  had  induced  French  families 
to  ask  in  the  American  officers  and  enlisted  men. 
It  did  very  well,  he  said.  What  gave  the  French 
confidence  was  that  the  American  soldiers  were 
always  playing  with  the  French  children. 
"That's  because  there's  no  embarrassment 
there,  —  about  language  and  customs,  —  chil- 
dren don't  mind  our  ignorance  of  the  speech  — ' 
and  they  understand."  He  agreed  that  that  had 
something  to  do  with  it. 

"They  are  so  far  from  home.  But  even  the 
rough  ones  are  gentle,"  he  says.  "I  was  coming 
out  of  a  cinema,  two  sailors  ahead  began  pinch- 
ing two  girls,  almost  trying  to  kiss  them.  I  said, 
*  You've  made  a  mistake.  Those  girls  are  good 
girls —  they're  with  their  mother.'  And  one  of 
them  begged  me  to  apologize  for  them  to  the 
girls'  mother.  You  know  I  saw  tears  in  that 
boy's  eyes!" 
^    Curious  how  we  study  each  other,  we  peoples 

[  114  1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

parted  by  our  tongues.  We  get  along  excellently 
together. 

Late  at  night  I  roll  into  the  black,  tortuous 

streets  of  T and  break  into  the  "  Y.M.C.A." 

housed  in  the  house  from  which  the  priest  was 
routed.  A  tired  "Y"  woman  says  the  house  is 
full,  but  Monsieur  X  has  a  bed,  and  leads  me 
down  the  street  to  a  large  door  and  into  a  large 
front  parlor,  switches  on  a  light,  and  among  the 
settees,  lacquered  tables,  mirrors,  chandeliers, 
hangings,  etc.,  are  half  a  dozen  cots  jammed  in. 
Without  a  word  or  a  wash,  I  peel  off,  partly, 
and  turn  in,  thanking  my  stars  that  you  had 
got  me  a  blanket  and  that  I  'd  brought  it  along, 
for  the  bed  looked  "used"  and  pretty  light- 
covered.  So  I  wrap  up  in  my  own  blanket  in- 
side the  bedding. 

Next  morning  it  is  Monsieur  X  himself  who 
enters  and  inquires  if  we'd  slept  well,  meanwhile 
clinking  silver  money  in  his  hands  as  if  playing 
with  it.  He  had  learned  that  that  was  the  easiest 
way  of  talking  to  Americans  about  the  bill. 
^'Come  bean?^^  inquire  the  two  young  aviators, 
just  gathering  up  their  helmets,  leather  coats, 

[  115  1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

and  panoramic  maps.  The  handsome  military 
mustached  Monsieur  X  (evidently  a  decayed 
gentleman)  cheerfully  collects  three  francs  from 
each  of  us. 

Slam-banging  through  the  night  in  a  new  re- 
gion one  meets  many  folks  as  one  inquires  the 
way.  Old  women,  who  cheerfully  draw  water  for 
the  auto  and  volubly  direct  or  misdirect  us.  Once 
it  was  an  old  priest,  cure  of  the  village,  who  ran 
down  the  road  in  the  dark  to  where  he  saw  us 
studying  a  Km.  stone  trying  to  make  out  our 
way.  He  is  like  an  old  woman  in  his  gown  and 
cap  and  his  volubility.  He  knew  we  had  taken 
the  wrong  turn  —  he  knew  —  we  wanted  the 
road  to  D.  —  ah,  he  knew  —  many  took  the 
wrong  turn  just  here;  he  would  guide  us;  he 
knew  the  Americans  —  a  colonel  he  had  had  at 
his  house  once  for  weeks.  And  he  shook  hands 
good-bye  with  one  finger,  the  others  holding  his 
black  book.  He  lifted  his  cap  and  wiggled  a 
blessing  at  us,  and  I  departed  regretting  again 
my  lack  of  polite  verbiage. 

Perhaps  it's  nearer  the  front  where  we  lunch. 
A  lively  barrage  is  going  on  between  the  soup 
[  ii6] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

and  the  salad  —  Archies  overhead  trying  to  get 
some  Boche  avion;  and  the  pretty  waitress  and 
I  frequently  step  to  the  window  to  watch  the 
shrapnel  puffs  in  the  blue  sky.  With  the  f romage 
Mademoiselle  breaks  in  to  cry  that  the  Boche 
has  fallen,  about  three  kilos  away. 

That  morning  I'd  seen  half  a  dozen  Boche 
planes  overhead  and  had  piled  out  twice  to  see 
the  barrage.  You  hear  nothing  in  the  noisy  shut- 
in  car  until  you  see  people  pausing  here  and 
there  to  stare  up.  After  a  mile  or  so  of  starers  I 
pull  up  and  hop  out.  "Krump-blat"  go  the  guns 
and  the  blue  sky  is  being  marked  with  white 
points  which  puff  out,  then  expand,  then  hang 
and  grow  and  float,  with  others  continually  puff- 
ing out  near  by.  Finally,  in  the  midst  of  a  net- 
work of  the  puffballs  you  make  out  the  tiny 
gnat  which  is  the  bull's-eye  of  it  all.  And  then 
you  may  hear  the  far-away  regular  "Tack- 
tack-tack-tack"  of  the  machine  guns  —  battles 
in  the  air  at  that  height  sound  unearthly  fairy- 
like —  and  you  make  out  another  gnat  and  the 
two  dodging  and  turning.  Then  everybody  on 
the  road  stops  and  watches,  —  the  mere  barrage 

[  117] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

was  too  common.  While  I  watched  one  fight,  a 
plane  fell.  "Ah,  il  tombe!"  is  the  cry,  and  then, 
with  a  difFerent  "Ah,"  "C'est  le  frangais." 
These  civilians  can  tell  the  planes  apart  when 
I  can't.  This  one  fell  about  a  mile,  whirling  in 
the  bright  sun,  looking  as  little  like  a  tragedy 
as  a  falling  leaf.  When  still  'way  up  he  righted 
and  went  off  under  control. 

In  all  the  cities  on  the  front  over  here  the 
bombed  houses  and  all  the  doors  of  substantial 
buildings  have  this  sign,  "  Abri  —  lOO,"  meaning 
a  cellar  to  house  a  hundred  during  a  raid,  or, 
"Cave  Voutee — 15,"  or  simply  ^  the  holy 
sign  to  bless  the  place  and  the  number  who  can 
get  safety  there.  In  the  open  squares  are  great 
concrete,  roofed-in  dugouts  to  hold  hundreds. 

One  part  of  the  Vosges  is  rather  famous  for 
laces,  I'd  heard,  and  I  hunted  'round  after  lunch 
for  a  shop  I  'd  spied.  In  an  epicene  I  found  a 
large  woman  with  bad  teeth  and  a  voice  like 
a  sweet  bird's. 

She  showed  me  the  laces  I  pointed  out: 
"Made  by  the  hand,"  she  chirped.  "Dentelles 
de  Mirecourt,"  and  I  took  the  piece  that  was  so 
[  118  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

"belle"  that  she  had  had  it  since  spring,  and  if 
I  had  not  purchased  it  she  would  have  given  it 
to  her  daughter  for  No'eL 

Out  in  the  street  the  "krump-blats"  were 
so  Kvely  that  I  counted  forty-three  shrapnel 
puffs  beside  a  few  black  cloudlets,  high  explo- 
sives. The  plane  was  ducking  toward  Boche- 
land  quite  successfully. 

There  was  an  unusual  stir  of  people,  going 
and  coming,  afoot  and  on  bicycles,  out  one 
street.  "Out  there's  the  fallen  Boche,  I  bet." 
Then  a  car  with  some  "Y.M.'s"  drew  up  and 
confirmed  the  guess. 

"Our  plane  did  n't  fire  more  than  ten  shots, 
and  he,"  pointing  back,  "came  down  in  flames. 
The  observer  jumped.  He  was  rammed  so  hard 
in  the  ground  his  shoes  came  off  when  they 
pulled  the  body  out.  The  other  was  still  burning. 
I  got  the  French  to  pour  water  on  the  body." 
They  all  had  pieces  of  camouflaged  cloth  in  their 
hands.  "Americans  always  get  souvenirs,"  one 
said  sheepishly,  and  then,  as  if  to  excuse  him- 
self, he  laid  a  piece  on  my  arm.  They  went  off, 
and  I  stood  there  with  the  wrapped-up  lace 

[  119  1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

and  the  bit  of  colored  canvas.  It  was  the  bril- 
liantest,  clear,  peacefullest  day! 

Here  are  the  two  bits,  one  from  France,  one 
just  from  Germany — as  they  came  together 
in  that  street. 


XXV 

General  Headquarters,  A.E.F,y 

October  25,  1918 
I  SUPPOSE  my  letters  seem  full  of  the  trivialities 
of  war.  They're  the  relief.  Day  and  night  and 
Sundays  I'm  puzzling  my  head  over  the  big 
problems  and  their  bearing  on  my  job.  So  I  find 
myself  hunting  for  the  relief  of  noting  the  surface 
manifestations  of  the  war  as  I  see  it.  The  obser- 
vations are  n't  especially  deep  or  serious  and  so 
you  must  n't  take  'em  so. 

I  see  so  many  reports  of  great  changes,  that 
I  'm  hard  put  to  it  to  find  touchstones  on  which  ^ 

to  test  them.  One  of  one's  most  familiar  tests  is 
the  newspapers  whose  habits  he  knows.  I'm 
perpetually  irritated  to  be  cut  off  from  them. 
French  papers  are  pretty  poor.  I  read  them 
diligently  from  U Action  Frangaise,  which  is  the 
Royalist  sheet,  through  Le  Matin  and  Journal 
to  VHumanite,  just  now  come  into  the  control 
of  the  minority  (now  the  majority)  Socialists. 

[  121  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

The  last  is  the  best  of  the  lot  for  actual  amount 
of  news.  I  enclose  a  sample.  It  will  bear  reading. 

I  have  no  idea  of  American  reaction  to  the 
President's  amazing  notes.  I  can  get  no  idea  of 
American  thought  on  war  or  peace.  I  have  an 
idea  that  America  is  beginning  to  think  again 
after  the  long  year  devoted  to  action  solely. 
That  was  always  the  anomaly:  apparently  the 
whole  of  the  American  people  had  quit  thinking 
so  far  as  the  press  gave  evidence,  and  yet  among 
governments  only  the  American  was  doing  any 
real  thinking  —  so  far  as  government's  pro- 
nouncements gave  evidence.  That  is  the  real 
marvellousness  of  Wilson. 

Incidentally  about  all  I  have  to  do  these  days 
is  to  publish  to  the  Boche  what  the  President 
says;  he  writes  all  our  leaflets  now. 

It's  late.  I  must  to  bed.  Here's  something 
which  will  amuse  you:  I  dined  at  a  French 
restaurant  here  to-night  with  a  lieutenant  and 
a  thin  little  army  nurse  as  table  companions. 
She  seemed  so  subdued,  the  shabby  little  servi- 
tor in  the  backwash  of  war,  that  I  began  cov- 
ertly to  gibe  at  her.  "It  does  n't  look  as  though 

[  122  ]. 


Slmenfanij^c  Sujiij 


3ii   «fln|a»    wuttoe    Det    Sptogermon    Simmq    aUnllct   5>et  digger  earn  3>ar(q  etjdjoj  Dt  aBit.e  Wunt  fiijn, 
ficlqni^t.    2»t«  IttUt  lourtcn  freift«Jpro«^en.  mcil  pe  »i«  »«6el  in  lutlxrifd^er  UberfeliMnfl  lot. 

Sr  nurbe  freigffprotfien. 


3>er   Cf)ippanjai)  =  3nbionfr   Sloob^   €tjtt   tanote    ben  3»et    ^tofeffot    SBoobroro    fflSilfon     Ijolte     cin'^  Burf^ 

^na6en  Sommq  $inf(eton,  lotil  er  fUt  feinen  93atet  gefc^riebcn,  nac^  uitli^em'  3)eutirf)(anb  ber  beftreg'Ktte 
«in    paar    Sfranffurter    geftolt    ^otte.     Cr    louriie  Staot  f<l.    dt  wutbe  frcigejproifien. 

freigefproi^en. 


AMERICAN  JUSTICE  (GERMAN  PROPAGANDA) 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

you  women  in  the  war  were  going  to  have  much 
to  say  about  the  things  at  home."  She  looked 
anxious.  I  went  on:  "You're  over  here  mixed 
up  in  a  man's  job.  When  you  get  slapped  in  the 
face,  you  don't  have  a  word."  She  wanted  to 
know  what  I  meant.  "Well,  why  don't  you  call 
for  the  resignation  of  a  few  Senators.  They 
booted  you  so  far  as  suffrage  is  concerned.  Over 
here  you  're  getting  hardened  to  blood  and  mur- 
der, you  would  have  the  excuse  of  becoming  ac- 
customed to  strong  measures,  but  not  a  peep 
from  any  of  you  on  that  suffrage  vote."  "But 
we  could  n't  get  a  letter  published,"  she  said. 
"But  you  have  n't  even  written  a  letter  home 
about  it,  have  you  ? "  She  surprised  me  by  say- 
ing: "If  I  write  the  letter,  will  you  censor  it  and 
send  it  over?"  I  promised  I  would.  I  don't  even 
know  her  name  nor  she  mine,  but  I  found  I  'd 
sized  her  up  right.  The  little  person  was  a  suf- 
fragist with  grit  hidden  away  in  her.  I'll  go 
there  to  dine  to-morrow  night  and  see  if  she 
keeps  her  word. 

I  won't  know  how  to  talk  to  women  when  I 
get  home,  for  I  talk  to  none  at  all.  The  "Y" 
[  123  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

women  weary  me.  A  kind  of  glorified  army 
housekeeper,  doing  splendid  work,  but  about 
as  soulful  as  housekeepers  usually  are.  Some- 
how you  don't  know  what  the  hell  to  do  with 
women  in  this  war  zone. 


XXVI 

General  Headquarters^  A.E,F., 
October  ig,  1918 
Recently  things  have  opened  up  wider  and 
wider.  AH  goes  better.  The  great  ones  here  have 
gradually  come  to  do  exactly  the  things  I  first 
asked  and  now  the  whole  programme  moves 
faster  and  bigger.  Of  course,  it  would  with  the 
magnificent  messages  the  President  has  been 
writing.  The  three  to  Germany,  especially  the 
last  and  the  Austrian  one,  are  my  great  ^stock 
in  trade.  ^ 

I  am  so  much  interested  in  your  reflection  of 
the  state  of  mind  at  home  over  Germany's  first 
notes  and  the  President's  answers.  You  convey 
the  impression  that  people  there  regarded  Ger- 
many's changes  as  camouflage  and  nothing  real. 
I  certainly  saw  a  good  deal  of  that  attitude 
among  staff  officers  who  ought  to  know  better, 
but  my  study  of  the  German  papers  reveals 
how  extraordinary  are  the  changes.  The  day 

*  See  Appendix. 
[    I2S   1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

the  Kaiser's  rescript  to  Hertling  was  published, 
accepting  his  resignation  to  make  room  for 
"men  having  more  of  the  people's  confidence," 
I  had  copies  of  the  thing  stricken  oif,  saying  to 
myself,  "What  does  this  mean?  Can  it  be  that 
the  German  Revolution  is  starting  at  last?"  It 
moves  slowly,  —  as  a  revolution,  —  but  it's 
amazingly  fast  for  Germany,  and  I  am  among 
those  prophesying  the  abdication  of  the  Kaiser, 
the  ousting  of  Max  of  Baden,  the  growth  of  the 
Independent  Socialists,  and  a  quick-coming 
choice  between  a  republic  and  Bolshevism.  As 
to  the  war —  it's  done  for;  prophets  should  n't 
commit  themselves  until  after  the  terms  of  the 
armistice  have  been  published,  but  I  say  that 
line  of  the  Kaiser's  to  Hertling  meant  that  I 
should  see  you  before  so  very  long. 


XXVII 

General  Headquarters,  A.E.F,^ 

November  i,  191 8 
Things  happen  so  fast.  To-day  Turkey  has 
quit,  the  revolution  seems  to  have  broken  out 
in  Buda-Pesth  and  Vienna  —  now  comes  the 
rumor  that  the  Kaiser  has  quit.  They  are  skep- 
tical of  the  last  here.  Though  you  will  know 
long  before  you  get  this  I  venture  a  record !  He 
has.  This  war  will  see  no  kings  in  Central  Europe 
at  its  end. 

You  can  imagine  the  desperate  job  of  trying 
to  keep  leaflets  up  to  date.  It  can  hardly  be 
done.  And  yet  we've  done  very  fairly.  Prisoners 
come  in  saying  the  first  word  of  this  or  that 
happening  was  the  air-route  news. 

The  war  is  over.  No  matter  how  steep  the 
terms  of  the  armistice,  nor  what  last  rallying 
cry  may  rise  in  Germany,  there'll  be  no  more 
fighting  in  1919. 


[  127  ] 


XXVIII 

General  Headquarters,  J.E.F., 
November  Three,  and  the  War  is  over! 
Austria  has  signed  —  the  word  has  just  come, 
and  it  goes  into  effect  to-morrow  and  will  be 
published  the  next  day!  The  Kaiser  has  signed, 
or  is  signing,  so  far  as  his  personal  connection 
with  thrones  is  concerned  —  I  am  sure  of  it. 
The  war  is  gone  Kaput  —  it's  over — fini! 

This  is  just  a  note  to  holler!  There's  ferocious 
fighting  going  on  on  our  front  right  now  —  but 
the  war  is  over  and  won.  There  '11  be  fighting  of 
the  fiercest  sort  for  a  few  weeks  yet,  but  the 
war  is  over!  Poor  boys  who  die  when  the  war  is 
over! 

Yesterday  I  motored  along  scores  of  front- 
wards area.  Griscom  and  Ifft  were  off  in  an- 
other direction.  They  got  shelled  and  had  to 
take  to  dugouts  for  an  hour,  dragging  a  wounded 
man  from  the  street  into  their  dugout.  Shells 
blew  up  part  of  the  hospital  in  that  town  —  the 
same  hospital  where  Marion  was  until  about 
[  128  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

twenty  days  ago.  In  his  desperation  the  enemy 
IS  doing  a  lot  of  "harassing"  in  the  immediate 
back  areas.  He's  still  putting  up  a  strong  and 
terrific  defense  on  our  front.  But  our  army 
ploughed  into  him  so  savagely  yesterday  that 
he  ran  and  our  troops  pursuing  in  trucks 
could  n't  even  get  in  touch  with  him. 

The  nearer  peace  we  get  the  harder  we  press 
the  fighting.  Our  front  is  on  the  move  to-day. 
Not  much  thought  of  peace,  not  much  belief  in 
the  weakening  of  Germany,  up  on  our  front 
where  the  doughboys  are  fighting  a  savage  and 
powerful  foe.  The  absorbing  and  desperate  busi- 
ness of  war  goes  on  there  more  intensely  than 
ever.  With  so  huge  a  number  of  enemy  divi- 
sions piled  up  before  us  and  all  the  machine 
guns  and  airplanes  of  Germany  concentrated 
there,  we're  having  no  proof,  say  the  boys, 
of  "changes"  and  "wrecked  morale"  in  Ger- 
many. It's  the  same  old  war  up  there. 

If  this  note  sounds  tired  and  worn  out.  It's 
just  because  the  days  are  long  and  full  and 
there's  no  rest.  But  I  enjoy  'em  to  the  full. 
Wish  I  could  get  more  done  at  times,  but  they 

[  129  1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

are  tremendously  absorbing  and  varied.  To- 
morrow I  'm  out  on  the  road  again,  —  still  tot- 
ing the  helmet  and  gas-mask  which  I've  had 
no  occasion  to  use,  —  still  hoping  the  line  of 
duty  will  lead  me  where  the  noise  is,  and  still 
sticking  to  my  resolution  to  eschew  "looking 
for  it."  I  am  taking  Miltenberger  up  front  with 
me.  Tell  his  mother  he's  developed  into  a  very 
capable  officer,  which  he  certainly  has. 

R.  H.  is  meeting  a  distinguished  lady  who 
arrives  shortly.  Miss  Wilson.  Paris  I  hear,  is 
transformed,  streets  half  illuminated  again, 
people  glowing,  triumphant.  In  this  town,  be- 
hold, we  have  now  at  night  one  gas-lamp  half 
turned  up,  and  under  it  a  wandering  chantier 
with  an  accordion  singing  and  selling  boulevard 
hits.  Amazing!  For  the  most  part  we  go  on  as 
before.  The  great  machine  grinds  ahead  — 
grinds  ahead. 


XXIX 

General  Headquarters^  A,E,F., 

Novembers,  191 8 
Have  just  read  the  President's  note  transmit- 
ting the  terms  to  Germany,  saying,  "Go  ask 
Foch."i 

Now  what  will  happen?  It  will  have  hap- 
pened by  the  time  you  get  this,  of  course.  Will 
Germany  accept?  Will  the  Kaiser  abdicate? 
Will  the  fighting  end  this  month?  So  go  the 
questions.  The  high  and  mighty  ones  are 
through  conversing  in  Paris  —  what  will  be 
the  result? 

I  don't  know.  The  bets  in  the  purlieus  of  the 
embassies  are,  "Armistice  signed  and  not  an- 
other shot  in  ten  days."  War  over  by  Novem- 
ber 15.  Perhaps.  They're  very  wise  there  —  far 
wiser  than  the  soldiers !  JVe  soldiers ! 

Turning  to  fresher  airs  —  I  go  up  frontwards 
to-morrow,  to  shove  over  my  very  important 

*  See  Appendix. 

[  131  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

papers.  What  a  month  from  now  will  bring 
forth  I  have  no  idea  —  or  a  week.  I  have  abso- 
lutely no  idea.  Must  just  wait  and  see  —  in  the 
army. 


XXX 

General  Headquarters^  J,E.F,, 
Sunday y  November  lo,  191 8 
Curious  work  waging  war  these  days.  At  the 
front  it's  all  our  magnificent  push  into  Sedan 
and  east  of  the  Meuse.  Back  here  it's  all  the 
wireless  news  of  Germany's  revolution.  Long  be- 
fore you  get  this  it  will  be  public  that  the  eventu- 
ality I  predicted  not  long  ago  is  already  upon  us. 
Yes  —  I  crow  a  bit  as  a  prognosticator. 

The  war  always  was,  as  somebody  said,  a  race 
with  revolution,  and  revolution  has  won.  Ber- 
lin in  the  hands  of  the  Workmen's  and  Soldiers' 
Committee!  Germany  gone  Bolshevik!  Only  a 
fortnight  ago,  only  yesterday,  many  were  sure 
that  Germany's  "democratization"  was  all 
camouflage.  To  suggest  that  fifteen  per  cent  of 
it  was  camouflage  and  eighty-five  per  cent  was 
very  much  more  the  real  thing  than  it  even  pre- 
tended to  be,  was  enough  to  get  one  looked  on 
with  suspicion. 

So  fast  events  move  that  the  feeling  of  relief 

[  133  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

their  faces  and  they  grin  rather  surprisedly  at 
Chaumont  exploding  around  them.  What  a  poor 
little  explosion  after  all !  A  few  Chinese  lanterns 
and  a  score  of  strung-out  electrics  —  a  good 
many  flags  suddenly  hung  out,  the  shop  win- 
dows lighted,  a  considerable  crowd,  a  great  chat- 
ter, children  whistling  and  yelling,  poilus  and 
girls  intertwined  and  singing  "La  Marseillaise," 
and  yet  it  is  all  fairly  shocking  in  this  town 
where  for  years  nightfall  has  meant  complete 
blackness,  stumbling  in  the  streets,  silence — • 
bitter  black  repression,  for  four  years. 

These  few  lights,  this  going  gaily  to  and  fro, 
—  and  the  bits  of  "La  Marseillaise,"  —  they 
are  astounding.  Not  in  a  hundred  years  has 
France  celebrated  great  victory.  She  does  n't 
know  how.  And  so  few  at  home  to  celebrate. 
Over  on  the  hill,  three  miles  away,  where  the 
A.E.F.  gas  school  is,  the  Americans  are  show- 
ing them  how  to  do  it.  Great  booms  tear  across 
the  night  and  constellations  and  rockets  and 
bombs  of  many-colored  lights  startle  the  sky 
there  —  the  machinery  of  war  misturned  to  gay 
uses. 

[  136] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

And  yet  the  army  is  so  set  in  its  ways  that 
here  in  the  great  casernes  where  G.H.Q.  is 
housed,  every  window  to-night  is  muffled  as  of 
yore — in  the  days  of  war.  Except  General 
Pershing's  —  they  are  openly,  brazenly  alight. 

Half  the  afternoon  the  church  bells  rang. 
"Victory  —  victory."  I  took  a  long  walk  along 
the  canalized  Marne  —  and  in  the  valley  was 
a  lone  little  church  whose  bells  rang  and  rang. 
The  old  women  and  boys  still  worked  in  the 
fields  —  the  bells  near  split  their  sides.  Then 
they  stopped.  In  five  minutes  they  began  again 
—  and  rang  until  the  ringer's  breath  gave  out. 
After  a  pause  they  rang  again  for  half  an  hour, 
while  I  clambered  over  all  the  piney  hillsides 
round  about  —  and  felt  sick  of  the  war,  and  of 
France  and  of  Victory.  I  could  be  tremen- 
dously glad  of  such  a  victory;  with  Germany 
crowning  it  with  such  a  revolution,  the]  war 
seems  worth  while.  I  should  feel  exalted.  In- 
stead I  feel  just  plumb  lonesome. 

It  was  a  cheerful  day,  almost  sunny,  and 
especially  at  noon  —  the  great  yard  of  the 
caserne  alive,  on  one  side  forty  husky  soldiers 

[  137  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

booting  an  American  football,  on  the  other  a 
hundred  officers  listening  to  the  band,  the  flags 
flapping,  an  airplane  zooming  overhead;  cou- 
riers' motor-cycles  tearing  in  and  out  with  their 
mud-colored  riders;  then  a  stir,  a  snapping  to 
attention  by  officers  fifty  yards  off  as  the  great 
gray  auto  with  the  red  shield  with  four  white 
stars  purrs  past  and  General  Pershing's  soldierly 
profile  and  hand  stiffly  at  salute  is  spied. 

The  sleepy  old  Marne  with  its  tree-flanked 
canal  was  green  and  gray  and  the  villages  with 
their  beautiful  red  roofs,  all  made  a  charming 
bit  —  but  lonely. 

Poor  France!  These  villages  made  me  think 
so  forcibly  of  those  other  villages  I  passed  a  few 
days  ago.  Smashed  into  the  mud,  nothing  hu- 
man left,  no  roofs,  no  walls,  no  streets,  no  un- 
broken stones,  nothing,  nothing  but  horrible 
catastrophe.  The  dirty,  wallowing  soldiers  in 
the  muddy  ways  through  these  places  that  had 
been  homes,  looked  alniost  beautiful. 


XXXI 

General  Headquarters,  A.E.F.j 

November  12,  191 8 
Le  jour  de  gloire  est  arrive  having  really  begun 
yesterday,  but  Chaumont,  Paris,  —  all  France 
is  still  celebrating. 

There  was  an  official  celebration  here  this 
evening  and  I  was  delegated  to  represent  G.  2.D. 
of  the  General  Staff  at  the  fete  at  the  Hotel  de 
Ville.  I  found  that  the  duties  of  official  celebra- 
tor  are  to  stand  in  a  jam  and  exhibit  the  uni- 
form. It  was  at  four  o'clock.  The  town  was  all 
in  the  streets  with  flags  at  every  door.  A  real 
crowd  in  the  Place  in  front  of  the  Hotel  de 
Ville,  a  stately  old  building  for  so  small  a  town, 
with  "Liberte,  Egalite,  Fraternite,"  in  big  gold 
letters  high  on  the  fagade  —  as  in  every  town 
in  France.  Through  a  long  formal  lane  in  the 
crowd  I  marched,  trying  hard  to  look  like  a 
modest  hero.  Inside  a  rather  impressive  salon, 
jammed  with  French  officers,  Americans,  some 
British,  Belgian,  and  Italian,  also  the  bour- 

[  139  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

geolsie  in  silk  hats  and  bankers'  beards.  Two  or 
three  women,  —  one,  strange  to  say,  not  in 
black.  Next  me  stood  a  French  lieutenant,  — 
emaciated,  wry-necked,  and  not  gay.  I  saw  he 
had  the  Croix  de  Guerre^  with  many  palms  and 
stars,  Xh^MedailleMilitairey  and  another  medal, 
— not  to  speak  of  the  fourr a gere.  Also  he  had  an 
artificial  arm  and  one  artificial  leg.  The  hand  at 
the  end  of  his  arm  looked  rigid,  and  the  most 
childish  attempt  at  making  a  wax  model  to 
exhibit  gloves  on.  Three  bull-necked,  tremen- 
dously bearded  Frenchmen  made  orations  in 
which  every  other  word  was  "Victoire  —  Tri- 
omphe  —  Nos  Poilus,"  etc. 

It  was  curious  to  perceive  such  real  eloquence 
coming  from  such  Assyrian  bullheads.  After 
half  an  hour's  jam  I  was  glad  to  escape. 

The  war  is  over.  There  was  savage  fighting 
going  on  on  the  American  fronts  at  eleven  o'clock 
—  the  last,  the  real  zero  hour,  yesterday.  Our 
boys,  it  seems,  hardly  knew  of  the  armistice 
negotiations.  The  Germans  knew  and  were  send- 
ing over  absolutely  everything  their  artillery 
had  left.  Our  artillery  was  sending  even  more 
[  140  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

back.  North  of  St.  Mihiel  the  fighting  was  ex- 
tremely savage  —  at  eleven  o'clock.  Then  the 
artillery  stopped.  Runners  came  forward  and 
told  our  men  of  the  armistice,  the  order  to  cease 
firing,  the  war's  end. 

It  seems  that  when  the  end  came  our  men 
waited  a  bit,  somewhat  dazed  and  astounded. 
Then  one  and  then  another  began  calling  and 
standing  up,  where  standing  meant  death  but 
minutes  before.  Then  three  hundred  yards  off 
—  five  hundred  —  seven  hundred  —  they  saw 
other  figures  standing  — ^Boche  soldiers.  Our 
men  trickled  over  to  "see."  The  Boche  men 
were  already  coming  over  to  "see."  Our  men 
gave  them  cigarettes  and  received  knives, 
souvenirs,  even  Iron  Cross  ribbons.  Fritz  stayed 
in  our  trenches  —  or  rather  shell-holes  and  fox- 
holes—  awhile  and  had  coffee.  When  officers 
approached,  both  Boches  and  Americans  would 
make  off  to  their  own  lines. 

The  Germans  were  almost  cocky.  They  did  n't 
act  licked  at  all.  They  knew  the  war  was  lost  — 
but  they  personally  had  n't  lost  it.  They  knew 
the  Kaiser  had  abdicated  and  that  the  Crown 

[  141  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

Prince  was  dead  and  that  the  King  of  Saxony 
had  been  assassinated  —  and  a  lot  more  of 
partly  true,  partly  false,  things.  They  knew  the 
American  cigarettes  and  coffee  were  mighty 
good,  but  if  their  officers  had  come  along  and 
cried  out  that  it  was  all  off  and  all  on  and  to 
begin  firing,  they'd  have  dropped  behind  their 
machine  guns  again. 

I  think  I  Ve  written  —  I  know  I  've  often  said 
—  that  the  "great-man  theory"  was  a  myth. 
Sometimes  I  almost  revert  to  it  —  when  Wilson 
does  some  of  the  things  he  does,  the  great-man 
theory  seems  to  come  alive  again,  and  when  I 
see  what  "the  officer"  is  and  does  —  the  little- 
great-man  shows  up.  At  least  the  power  of  the 
individual.  "It's  the  officers,"  said  a  Yank  ser- 
geant to  me  yesterday.  "If  the  officer  is  good, 
all  right.  If  not,  you  can't  get  the  men  to  do 
anything."  This  sergeant  had  just  come  from 
Bois  Belleu  —  not  the  old  Bois  de  Belleau,  but 
Bois  Belleu  up  on  the  St.  Mihiel  sector,  where 
a  day  or  two  ago  there  was  fighting  worse  than 
Chateau  Thierry,  the  Vesle,  St.  Mihiel,  and  the 
Argonne.  And  this  boy  had  been  through  all 

[  142  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

those.  "The  Boches,"  he  said  —  "they  were 
Saxons  —  had  been  told  to  hold  at  all  costs,  and 
they  did.  We  did  n't  take  prisoners  —  we 
could  n't.  The  few  we  might  have  taken  would 
have  tried  to  get  back,  and  we  had  nobody  to 
guard  'em.  It  was  just  a  dozen  machine-gun 
nests,  but  the  Boche  stuck  right  there  until  he 
got  killed  and  that 's  all  there  was  to  it.  One  nest 
—  they're  mostly  concrete  affairs,  with  steel 
shutters  and  a  door,  holding  twenty-one  men 
and  six  to  twelve  guns  —  cost  us  all  the  officers 
we  had  left  and  a  lot  of  men.  One  of  our  non- 
coms  just  went  crazy  there.  We  were  all  around 
it  and  still  they  stuck,  opening  up  the  door  now 
and  then  to  throw  a  bomb.  Once  they  were  n't 
quick  enough  in  shutting  it  and  the  sergeant 
jammed  the  door  with  a  hand  grenade  and  then 
threw  away  his  rifle  and  got  in  that  door  with 
his  trench  knife.  When  we  got  in  he  had  already 
killed  five  and  not  a  Boche  in  there  but  had  a 
slash  on  him  somewhere."  I  think  the  man  was 
telling  the  exact  fact.  He  said:  "The  Boche 
counter-attacked  four  times  and  drove  us  back 
each  time.  The  fifth  time,  our  officer,  a  new 

[  143  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

one,  —  but  everybody  could  see  he  was  a  good 
one,  —  told  us  to  stop  'em,  and  at  the  right 
minute,  he  set  up  a  yell,  'Now  we've  got  'em! 
They're  running  now!  After  'em,  boys!'  They 
were  n't  running,  but  we  went  after  them  and 
pretty  soon  they  were  running.  The  officer  did 
it."  It  recalls  the  saying,  "In  war  somebody's 
always  running  away,  either  you  or  the  other 
fellow.  You  've  just  got  to  find  out  which." 

The  killing's  all  over.  It's  human  vanity  to 
wish  that  I  had  been  in  it  more  deeply,  —  been 
under  steady  shell-fire  instead  of  just  having  a 
few  fall  in  the  general  neighborhood,  —  been  on 
the  line  when  any  second  a  bullet  might  get 
you,  instead  of  being  on  the  line  two  days  after 
the  fighting  had  moved  up  three  or  four  miles. 
In  war  you  go  mostly  where  you  are  told.  Also 
as  to  "seeing"  a  battle,  it  can  hardly  be  done. 
I  have  talked  with  a  man  here  who  was  "in  the 
thick"  of  it,  was  wounded  three  times  in  seven 
months,  —  and  who  never  once  laid  eyes  on  a 
live  Boche.  He  knew  where  they  were  and  he 
was  shooting  at  them,  but  he  never  actually 
saw  an  individual  enemy.  If  seeing  a  battle  is 

[  144  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

seeing  an  enemy  shooting  at  you,  that's  rarer 
yet.  Apparently  when  it  gets  down  to  very  close 
work,  it's  a  case  of  lying  in  your  little  individual 
shell-hole  or  behind  a  scrap  of  cover  and  gazing 
at  a  muck  of  torn-up  ground,  shell-holes,  brush, 
and  wire,  when  suddenly  a  German  pops  up, 
runs  fifty  feet  toward  you,  and  ducks  into  cover, 
then  another  makes  the  stooping  run  forward, 
and  then  another,  in  a  little  while  another,  — 
all  the  while  you  do  your  damndest  to  pick  him 
off  here  and  there.  And  the  upshot  is  that  either 
you  run  or  he  does.  That  is,  either  you  drop 
back  a  little  and  do  some  more  picking  off,  or 
drop  'way  back  and  call  for  artillery,  or  else  you 
begin  ducking  toward  him  with  grenades  and 
rifle  shooting  and  bayonet  ready — and  he  runs. 
It  almost  never  comes  to  the  bayonet  itself  — • 
"came,"  I  meant.  It  really  is  all  over,  is  n't  it? 
There  you  have  two  of  the  things  that  made 
such  a  war  as  this  possible  and  so  long-lasting: 
(i)  You  don't  physically  dismember  the  enemy 
by  hand;  (2)  you  don't  see  him  at  all;  certainly 
you  don't  chat  and  smoke  with  him  of  evenings 
and  try  to  kill  him  of  mornings. 

[  145  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

Here's  a  most  interesting  bit.  Some  of  the 
correspondents  went  up  and  did  some  "frater- 
nizing" after  the  armistice.  One  told  me  that 
he  was  talking  with  six  Boches  when  another 
near  by  called  out,  "But  we'll  never  have 
a  republic  in  Germany";  whereupon  the  six 
turned  and  verbally  jumped  on  the  speaker, 
cursing,  deriding,  and  laughing  him  into  silence. 
Six  to  one  seems  a  good  proportion  for  republi- 
canism in  the  German  army. 


XXXII 

General  Headquarters,  A.ES,, 

November  i8, 1918 
I  TRIED  to  get  all  the  excitement  I  could  out  of 
lecturing  before  the  Intelligence  School  to-day 
at  Langres.  Thank  Heaven,  it  did  n't  rain :  a 
clear,  cold  day  with  a  good  bit  of  sun.  Langres 
is  an  hour's  auto  run  a  little  east  of  south  of 
Chaumont  —  a  famous  old  fortress  and  bishop- 
ric on  a  hill,  girdled  with  picturesque  walls, 
bastions,  and  gates.  It  has  several  great  ca- 
sernes, for  a  year  now  occupied  by  the  A.E.F. 
Staff  College,  Intelligence  School,  School  of  the 
Line,  Sanitary  School  —  a  score  of  army  schools, 
together  with  the  Base  Printing  Plant.  It  is  a 
pretty  place,  so  many  red,  red  roofs  and  queer 
streets,  and  a  cathedral  with  a  magnificent  apse 
and  chapels  and  a  curious  transition  clerestory 
of  little  Roman  arches. 

To  a  class  of  ten  or  fifteen,  with  the  war  on, 
I  could  lecture  informally  on  Propaganda  for 
twenty-four  hours  at  a  stretch  and  not  repeat 

[  147  1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

myself  —  and  do  it  with  enthusiasm.  But  to  a 
class  of  forty  or  forty-five,  after  the  war  is  over, 
when  it's  a  sort  of  entertainment  —  well,  I'm 
no  entertainer.  The  lecture-room  was  in  the 
Carteret-Trecourt  Caserne,  —  a  great  solid 
barracks  on  the  rim  of  the  ramparts,  —  the 
quaint  cathedral  looming  up  back  of  it,  and  a 
view  stretching  a  hundred  kilometres  oif  east; 
on  a  clear  day  you  can  see  the  tips  of  the  Vosges. 
The  School  adjutant  leads  me  around  at  2.30  in 
the  afternoon,  and  as  we  enter  the  forty-five 
young  officers,  all  with  front-line  experience, 
stand  suddenly  and  embarrassingly  at  atten- 
tion, each  at  his  desk.  I'm  led  down  the  long 
aisle  to  a  wooden  reading-stand  and  am  intro- 
duced after  the  adjutant  has  whispered  to  me 
to  order  the  officers  to  be  seated.  I  suppose 
they'd  be  standing  there  yet  if  he  had  n't 
warned  me. 

I  had  made  some  notes,  but  I  threw  them  to 
the  winds  and  sailed  in  as  best  I  could.  "Canned  " 
all  the  technical  stuff  I  'd  meant  to  expound  and 
fell  back  on  anecdotal  comment  on  Propaganda 
as  I'd  "propped"  her.  I  managed  to  survive  it 

I  148  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

—  especially  by  inviting  questions  and  was 
glad  to  be  heckled.  They  asked  a  good  many, 
but  not  more  than  I  could  answer.  I  took  care 
not  to  display  too  great  knowledge  of  front-line 
regimental  intelligence  work  —  seeing  as  how 
every  man-jack  lieutenant  and  captain  there 
had  had  months  of  experience  at  that. 

At  the  end  I  thanked  'em,  whereupon  they 
all  stood  up  stiffly  at  their  desks  again  and 
stared  straight  ahead.  I  had  some  papers  to 
gather  together  and  called  out,  I  think  rather 
plaintively,  —  "Please  don't  wait  for  me."  And 
they  did  n't.  Some  came  up  later  to  ask  ques- 
tions. They  were  altogether  a  nice,  capable- 
looking  lot. 


XXXIII 

General  Headquarters,  A.E.F,, 

November  21-22, 1918 
I  SPENT  four  days  in  Paris  last  week  and,  re- 
turning, found  no  letter  from  you.  Not  a  cable, 
not  a  thing  for  eight  days. 

Setting  off  for  Paris  gave  me  a  thrill.  The  fog 
of  mental  uncertainty  that  we  have  all  of  us 
been  in  hereabouts  since  the  armistice,  got  so 
thick  that  I  determined  to  shake  it.  So  me  voila, 
Saturday  noon,  on  the  platform  at  Chaumont 
station,  my  orders  in  my  pocket  and  Paris 
ahead  and  two  days  of  freedom,  the  first  in 
many  moons. 

The  tang  of  victory  was  in  the  air.  Lots  of 
smiling  officers  —  looking  as  if  they  had  won  the 
war  —  were  waiting  for  the  Paris  train  —  to 
Paris  for  a  victory  fete.  The  unreality  of  the 
connections  between  the  "fruits  of  victory"  — 
and  the  soldiers  who  fought,  stuck  out  pretty 
prominently,  I  knew.  Here  were  officers,  like 
me,  who  'd  never  missed  a  meal,  slept  in  beds, 
[  150  1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

met  danger  so  rarely  that  it  was  an  exhilara- 
tion —  we  were  going  off  to  celebrate.  The 
men  who  fought  were  still  up  where  they'd 
always  been,  and  though  danger  was  by  and 
the  meals  were  more  regular  —  they  weren't 
going  to  Paris. 

Sunday  was  a  great  day.  Paris  was  celebrat- 
ing the  return  of  Alsace-Lorraine — at  last.  The 
Place  de  la  Concorde  looked  like  a  crazy  ar- 
tillery park:  around  the  Obelisk,  ringing  the 
fountains,  on  all  curbs,  were  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  German  guns  —  mostly  camou- 
flaged, their  long  noses  pointed  skywards,  or 
their  squat,  capacious  muzzles  ready  to  shoot 
the  heads  off  the  statues.  Every  kind  of  gun 
with  every  kind  of  color,  in  triumphant  disar- 
ray. Along  the  Tuileries  esplanade  was  a  third 
of  a  mile  of  German  airplanes,  frantically  cam- 
ouflaged, with  hundreds  of  machine  guns  cocked 
up  like  frogs,  ready  to  jump.  Camouflaged  tanks 
were  in  the  Avenue,  parts  of  a  Zeppelin  at  the 
Tuileries  gates,  and  a  captive  captured  sausage, 
with  a  great  black  cross  on  its  side.  The  very 
sandbag  hutments  built  over  the  monuments 

[  iSi  ] 


L 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

were  strung  with  thousands  of  German  helmets, 
camouflaged  —  they  looked  Hke  turtles  climb- 
ing in  straight  rows. 

Everywhere  where  there  were  n't  guns  there 
were  people  that  afternoon,  on  all  streets,  gates, 
trees,  roofs.  I  was  in  the  park  around  the  air- 
planes —  and  on  them.  Suddenly  the  crowd 
began  tearing  canvas  off  the  planes.  In  an  hour 
they  tore  and  broke  all  the  wings  oif  all  those 
planes  for  souvenirs.  They  carried  off  a  lot  of 
machine  guns  later,  and  in  the  evening  I  saw 
them  swiping  German  helmets  off  the  covered 
statues. 

It  was  a  poor  procession,  but  overhead  the 
French  flyers  did  marvellous  stunts.  Forty 
planes  turned  and  twisted  and  fell  there,  while 
the  guns  boomed  and  the  bells  rang.  The  planes 
roared  right  down  to  the  park  tree-tops,  deafen- 
ing us,  and  then  zoomed  up,  just  missing  the 
Obelisk  top,  and  cavorted  for  victory.  Clouds  of 
carrier  pigeons  were  loosed  too. 

The  famous  Strasbourg  statue  was,  of  course, 
the  centre  of  the  fete.  The  police  for  a  time  kept 
the  populace  off  that  monument,  but  finally 

1 152 1 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

civilians  and  poilus  scrambled  up  to  the  very- 
knees  of  the  beflagged  statue.  It  was  reserved 
for  a  Yank  to  cap  the  climax.  He  climbed  up  to 
the  statue's  shoulder,  shoving  the  decorations 
aside,  and  then  right  up  to  the  crowned  head,  — ^" 
and  there  sat  down,  legs  crossed,  cap  cocked  at 
the  planes  overhead,  —  legs  dangling  around 
Strasbourg's  nose.  The  people  howled  with 
laughter.  The  formal  addresses  were  orated  to 
a  statue  with  a  Yank  perched  atop!  Of  all  the 
scenes  of  turbulence  that  the  Place  has  viewed, 
including  some  notable  beheadings,  I  doubt 
there  was  ever  a  more  grotesque  upsetting  of 
tradition  than  that  Yank  sitting  there  before  a 
million  victory-swelled  Frenchmen,  in  the  very- 
nub  of  their  fete. 

At  night  the  boulevards !  Not  quite  so  hyster- 
ical as  the  rioting  the  night  of  the  armistice,  — 
more  exuberantly  and  confidently  gay,  —  that 
was  the  boulevard  throng  that  night.  Men, 
women,  soldiers,  of  all  nations,  girls  of  all  kinds, 
rioted  noisily  the  length  of  the  boulevards.  They 
went  in  long  crack-the-whip  chains  of  soldiers 
and  girls  or  in  smaller  "  raiding  parties."  Girls 

[  153  ] 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

raided  officers,  snatching  their  caps  or  their 
sticks.  Soldiers  raided  girls,  snatching  kisses, 
more  often  soaking  kisses  to  great  bear-hugs. 
American  officers,  parading  with  American 
Army  nurses,  tried  at  first  to  "protect"  them, 
but  they  soon  gave  it  up.  "Marseillaise"  and 
"Madelon"  were  sung,  and  bugles  and  tin 
horns  blew.  If  a  taxi  tried  to  cross,  the  crowd 
fell  on  it  and  began  rocking  it  so  violently  as  to 
throw  out  the  chauffeur. 

"Give  me  thees!"  cried  a  girl,  snatching  a 
pin  flag  off  my  chest,  stuck  there  by  some  other 
girl  earlier  in  the  day.  "The  other  one  for  my 
sister!"  she  cried,  returning  to  the  assault  and 
seizing  the  other  little  flag.  I  suppose  I  grinned 
and  said  something  like  "Mais,  oui,  petite."  At 
any  rate  she  doubled  up  with  laughter,  cried, 
"Ah,  I'Americain!"  like  a  bird  flew  up  to  me 
again,  both  arms  tight  around  my  neck,  and. 
Wow!  I'd  been  kissed  like  a  hero.  Then  she 
danced  off  laughing,  as  pretty  a  face  as  you 
ever  saw  perking  up  between  her  fur  toque  and 
fur  coat  collar. 

I  had  my  cap  stolen  several  times  later  and 

[  154  ] 


^Ulr 


'G\'\\(^ 


G.  2.'S  CHRISTMAS  CARD 

G.  2.  in  army  slang  means  Military  Intelligence,  of  which  Brigadier-General  Dennis  E. 
Nolan  was  Chief  in  France.  General  Nolan  is  shown  here  as  the  head  and  center  of  G.  2. 
A,  B,  C,  and  D,  the  last  being  the  Propaganda  Section  —  evidently  having  difficulties  with 
the  censor. 


Adventures  in  Propaganda 

recovered  it  with  difficulty  and  for  a  price,  but 
the  other  was  nicer  than  stealing! 

Here's  one  significant  thing.  They  were  not 
celebrating  victory.  Neither  was  the  Chaumont 
jeunesse  the  night  of  November  nth.  I  never 
heard  a  shout  of  warlike  triumph  or  even  the 
word  Victoire.  There  was  just  one  universal 
call,  "Finis  —  la  guerre."  ("Say,  what's  this 
^ finny  la  gair^  they  say.^*"  asked  a  puzzled 
Yank.)  "Finis  la  guerre"  —  that's  the  whole 
thing.  It's  over,  the  war  —  ended,  done  for, 
past.  All  France  is  celebrating  nothing  these 
days  —  it's  just  celebrating.  When  you  have  n't 
celebrated  for  four  years,  you  just  celebrate. 


Appendices 


Appendix  I 

RUSSIAN  PROPAGANDA  FOUND  ON  GERMAN 
DEAD  IN  NO  MAN'S  LAND 

Offizielles  Telegramm  ier  rnssischen  VolbtaMssare 


Petersburg,  23.  Januar  1918. 

Die  Kommission  fiir  auslandische  Angelegenheiten  teilt  der 
Presse  folgenden  Protest  mit: 

€  Die  Volker  Deutschlands,  Oesterreichs  und  Ungarna 
Bind  verraten.  Die  Regierungen  der  Zentralmachte  fiihren 
mit  ihren  Volkem  ein  unglaubliches  Spiel.  Die  Aimexionisten 
sind  machtig  genug  um  die  in  ihren  Antworten  immer  ausweich- 
enden  Diplomaten  wie  v.  Hertling  und  v.  Kiihlmann  unter  ihren 
WiUen  zuzwingen.  Aber  trotzdem  die  Regierungen  den  Willen 
der  Annexionisten  erfiillen,  wagen  sie  es  nicht,  ihren  Volkern 
ihr  ganzes  Programm  zu  enthiillen.  V.  Kiihlmann  hat  erklart, 
dass  die  Zentralmachte  die  von  ihren  Truppen  besetzten  Ge- 
biete  vor  dem  aUgemeinen  Friedensschluss  nicht  raumen  kon- 
nen.  Daraus  hat  jedermann  und  vor  Allen  das  deutsche  Volk 
gefolgert,  dass  wenn  einmal  der  allgemeine  Friede  geschlossen 
ist,  Deutschland  und  Oesterreich-Ungarn  die  Raumung  Polens, 
Littauens,  Kurlands,  Rigas  imd  der  Inseln  anordnen  werden. 
In  Wirklichkeit  ist  dem  aber  nicht  so. 

Die  osterreichischen  und  deutschen  Vertreter  haben  sich 
geweigert,  eine  bestimmte  Erklarung  in  Bezug  auf  die  Rau- 
mung der  besetzten  Gebiete  abzugeben.  Es  handelt  sich  also 
tatsachlich  um  eine  ungeheuere  Annexion.  Dies  wurde  in 
Brest-Litowsk  mit  aUer  Klarheit  festgestellt;  die  ganze  Welt  hat 
es  feststellen  konnen  mit  Ausnahme  der  Volker  Deutsch- 
lands und  Oesterreich-Ungarns.  Diesen  wird  der  wichtigste 
Teil  der  Verhandlungen  verheimlicht.  Die  deutsche  Regierung 
kann  es  nicht  wagen,  ihrem  Volke  die  in  Brest-Litowsk  an 
Russland  gestellten  Forderungen  mitzuteilen.  Vor  der  ganzen 
Welt  Bind  die  Volker  Deutschlands  und  Oesterreich- 
Ungarns  von  ihren  Regierungen  betrogen. 

Gez:  Der  Kommissar  der  Auswaertigen  Angelegenheiten, 

TROTZKI. 

[  158  ] 


Appendix 

[TRANSLATION] 

Official  Telesram  of  Die  Rnssian  PeoBle's-CoMittee. 


St.  Petersburg,  January  23,  1918. 

The  Committee  for  Foreign  Affairs  gives  to  the  press  the 
foUowing  protest: 

The  German,  Austrian,  and  Hungarian  people  are 
betrayed.  The  Governments  of  the  Central  Powers  are  play- 
ing an  incredible  game  with  their  people.  The  Annexationists 
are  powerful  enough  to  compel  to  their  wills  the  always  eva- 
sive diplomats  like  Von  Hertling  and  Von  Kiihlmann.  But  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  the  Governments  are  carrying  out  the  will 
of  the  Annexationists,  they  dare  not  disclose  the  whole  pro- 
gramme to  their  people.  Von  Kiihlmann  has  declared  that  the 
Central  Powers  cannot  evacuate  the  occupied  provinces  before 
universal  peace.  Hence  every  one  has  understood,  and,  above  all, 
the  German  people,  that  when  once  a  general  peace  is  concluded, 
Germany  and  Austria-Hungary  will  order  the  evacuation  of 
Poland,  Lithuania,  Courland,  Riga,  and  the  Islands.  In  reality 
this  is  not  so. 

The  Austrian  and  German  representatives  have  been  unwill- 
ing to  make  a  precise  declaration  concerning  the  evacuation 
of  the  occupied  provinces.  It  is  a  huge  annexation  scheme 
that  is  going  for-ward.  This  was  settled  in  clearest  terms  in 
Brest-Litowsk.  That  it  was  so  settled  is  known  to  all  the  world 
with  the  exception  of  the  people  of  Germany  and  Aus- 
tria-Hungary.  From  these  the  most  important  part  of  the 
transaction  was  concealed.  The  German  Government  dares  not 
acquaint  its  people  with  the  terms  it  forced  upon  Russia  at 
Brest-Litowsk.  Before  the  whole  world  the  people  of 
Germany  and  Austria-Hungary  stand  betrayed  by  their 
Governments. 

Signed:  The  Commissioner  op  Foreign  Affairs, 

TROTZKI. 


[  159] 


Appendix  II 

FROM   STARS   AND    STRIPES,    THE   OFFICIAL 
NEWSPAPER  OF  THE  A.E.F.,  JANUARY  3,  1919 

GEN.  PROPAGANDA 
EXPLAINS  HOW  HE 
WON  BOGHE  OYER 


One  Argonne  Prisoner  in 

Three  Carried  Fatal 

Pamphlets 


BREAKFAST  AS  ADVERTISED 


Powerful  Weapon  Borne  to  Enemy 

by  Airplane  Had  Share 

in  Winning  War 


There  was  one  powerful  weapon  which 
was  used  by  the  American  Army  with 
starthng  and  visible  success  in  the  closing 
campaign  of  the  war  which  was  never  so 
much  as  mentioned  in  this  or  any  other 
newspaper.  There  was  one  section  of  the 
service  which  no  letter  was  permitted  to 

1 160] 


Appendix 


describe,  and  the  very  existence  of  which 
the  war  correspondents  were  under  stern 
orders  to  ignore. 

But  now  the  ban  is  hfted.  So  it  may 
be  said  that  while  the  artillery  was  pound- 
ing the  German  troops  with  shells  and  the 
infantry  was  shooting  and  slashing  at 
them  from  somewhat  closer  range,  the 
unsung  propaganda  section  was  silently 
bombarding  them  with  arguments,  busily 
unsettling  them  by  suggestion. 

It  had  the  boundless  satisfaction  of 
seeing  its  suggestions  followed.  When  the 
propaganda  section  would  pelt  the  enemy 
areas  with  leaflets  that  broadly  hinted  at 
the  wisdom  of  surrender  and  when,  per- 
haps days,  perhaps  weeks  later,  these  leaf- 
lets were  found  upon  countless  prisoners  in 
our  cages,  the  propaganda  section  was  en- 
titled to  a  little  glow  of  complacency. 

One  Out  Of  Every  Three 

Of  the  thousands  of  prisoners  who 
passed  through  the  examining  cage  of  a 
single  American  corps  during  the  first 
fortnight  of  the  Meuse-Argonne  campaign, 
it  was  found,  upon  examination,  that  one 
out  of  every  three  had  our  propaganda  in 
his  pocket.  And  this  despite  the  fact  that 
the  German  high  command  had  decreed  it 
a  treasonable  offense  for  any  soldier  so 
much  as  to  have  the  accursed  stuff  in  his 
possession.  Which  decree,  by  the  way,  also 
gave  the  propaganda  section  a  little  glow 
of  complacency. 

The  origins  of  the  service  were  inter- 
esting. At  first  Washington  was  a  little 
reluctant,  perhaps  from  an  instinctive 
feeling  that  there  must  be  something 
the  matter  with  any  weapon  the  German 
government  was  so  fond  of  using.  When 
our  own  propaganda  was  finally  sanc- 
tioned, it  was  with  this  stipulation — THAT 
IT  SHOULD  CONTAIN  NOTHING 
BUT  THE  TRUTH. 

[  i6i  ] 


Appendix 


«*lf  Only  They  Knew" 

Our  propaganda  section  may  be  con- 
ceived of  as  having  started  something 
like  this.  A  colonel,  say,  —  his  name  was 
probably  Legion,  —  exasperated  by  the 
Germans'  blissful  ignorance  of  the  forces 
massing  against  them  and  by  the  lies 
their  government  was  feeding  them  every 
hour,  sighed  deeply.  "  If  only  they  knew 
the  truth,"  said  Colonel  Legion. 

"Then  why  not  tell  them?"  some  one 
suggested  brightly.  "Propaganda  is  noth- 
ing but  a  fancy  war  name  for  publicity, 
and  who  knows  the  pubhcity  game  better 
than  the  Yanks?  Why,  the  Germans 
make  no  bones  about  admitting  that 
they  learned  the  trick  from  us.  Now  the 
difference  between  a  Boche  and  a  Yank 
is  just  this  —  that  a  Boche  is  some  one 
who  believes  everything  that 's  told  him 
and  a  Yank  is  some  one  who  disbelieves 
everything  that  is  told  him.  That  gives 
us  a  good  start.  The  Boche  believes  all 
this  rubbish  his  own  government  has  been 
telling  him;  let's  see  how  he  swallows  a 
few  facts.  Boy,  bring  me  a  German  print- 
ing press  and  four  airplanes." 

And  so  they  began.  Trucks,  contin- 
uously supplied  with  the  latest  argmnents 
done  into  neat  bundles,  would  scout  along 
the  front  —  often  somewhat  painfully  with- 
in reach  of  the  German  guns  —  and  also  sup- 
plied with  the  latest  news  as  to  wind  and 
enemy  movements.  Thus  equipped,  they 
could  direct  their  balloons  to  the  places 
where  they  would  do  the  most  good,  reach- 
ing Alsatian  troops  or  the  Czecho-Slovak 
forces  with  appropriate  arguments. 

By  the  Air  Route 

As  soon  as  President  Wilson  would  give 
an  utterance  intended  for  the  world 
(which  includes  the  German  Army),  the 
propaganda   section    would   translate   it 

f  162 1 


Appendix 


into  German  and  deliver  it  by  the  air 
route  to  all  the  areas  within  reach.  All 
the  news  of  the  German  disasters  which 
began  in  mid-July,  the  steadily  rising 
total  of  German  prisoners  in  the  Allied 
pen  —  these  were  done  into  leaflets  and 
delivered  to  the  German  front. 

There  were  really  two  phases  of  the 
propaganda  —  the  general  arguments,  de- 
signed to  weaken  the  enemy's  will  to  fight 
and  addressed  to  all  the  troops  as  far  back 
as  the  airplanes  could  go,  and  the  specific 
arguments,  intended  to  persuade  a  soldier 
in  the  front  line  to  throw  up  his  hands 
and  come  over. 

The  arguments  of  the  first  class  may 
be  illustrated  by  such  an  insidious  little 
questionnaire  as  this  —  questionnaires  for 
him  to  think  over  in  his  bunk  at  night: 

Several  questions  for  German  soldiers: 

1.  Will  you  ever  again  be  as  strong  as 
you  were  in  July,  1918? 

2.  Will  your  opponents  grow  daily 
stronger  or  weaker? 

3.  Have  your  grievous  losses  suffered  in 
1918  brought  you  the  victorious  peace 
which  your  leaders  promised  you? 

4.  Have  you  still  a  final  hope  of  victory? 

5.  Do  you  want  to  give  up  your  life  in  a 
hopeless  cause  ? 

The  effect  of  these  arguments,  aimed 
at  the  German  soldier  in  his  rest  area, 
could  never  be  measured.  The  effect  of 
the  arguments  directly  calculated  to  in- 
duce surrender  could  be  measured  by  the 
number  of  Germans  who,  having  obviously 
read  and  pondered  our  suggestions,  did 
actually  surrender. 

Of  this  class,  two  of  the  leaflets  sent 
over  worked  tremendous  havoc  in  the 
enemy  morale.  One  was  a  simple  trans- 
lation of  the  General  Order  on  the  treat- 
ment of  prisoners,  with  such  telling  para- 
graphs as  this,  in  it: 

"The  law  of  nature  and  of  nations  will 

[163  ] 


Appendix 


be  sacredly  heeded  in  the  treatment  of 
prisoners  of  war.  They  will  be  accord.ed 
every  consideration  dictated  by  the  prin- 
ciples of  humanity.  The  behavior  of  a 
generous  and  chivalrous  people  toward 
enemy  prisoners  of  war  will  be  punctil- 
iously observed." 

Another  —  and  this  really  became  fa- 
mous in  every  prison  cage  from  the  Meuse 
to  Grand  Pr6 — was  just  an  invitation  to 
breakfast.  It  was,  typographically,  an 
exact  reproduction  of  the  oflScial  German 
field  post-card.    Its  instructions  began: 

"  Write  the  address  of  your  family  upon 
this  card  and  if  you  are  captured  by  the 
Americans,  give  it  to  the  first  oflBcer  who 
questions  you.  He  will  make  it  his  busi- 
ness to  forward  it  in  order  that  your  family 
may  be  reassured  concerning  your  situ- 
ation." 

The  reverse  side  —  the  message  side  — 
had  this  greeting  to  the  home  folks  all 
ready  for  the  prisoner  to  sign: 

"  Do  not  worry  about  me.  The  war  is 
over  for  me.  I  have  good  food.  The 
American  Army  gives  its  prisoners  the 
same  food  as  its  own  soldiers:  Beef,  white 
bread,  potatoes,  beans,  prunes,  coffee,  but- 
ter, tobacco,  etc." 

And  in  every  attack  launched  in  the 
Argonne,  Germans  came  forward  through 
the  fog,  sometimes  by  twos  and  threes, 
sometimes  by  companies — each  man  clam- 
oring for  an  American  oflficer  and  demand- 
ing an  American  breakfast,  as  advertised. 
And  they  got  it. 


1 164] 


Appendix  III 


CHRONOLOGICAL  LIST  OF  EVENTS  WHICH  LED 
DIRECTLY  TO  GERMANY'S  DEFEAT 

TAKEN  FROM  NEW  YORK  TIMES  OF 
JANUARY  2,  191 9 

Taking  President  Wilson's  speech  to 
Congress  on  Jan.  8,  1918,  as  containing 
the  initial  formulae,  in  its  fourteen 
points,  for  the  conversations  which  ulti- 
mately resulted  in  the  armistice,  there 
succeeded  down  to  the  time  of  the  Austro- 
Hungarian  plea  for  a  "confidential  non- 
binding"  discussion  of  war  aims,  on  Sept. 
15,  a  series  of  declarations  of  which  the 
following  are  the  most  conspicuous: 

Rumania  signed  the  Treaty  of  Bucha- 
rest on  May  6,  the  terms  of  which  turned 
to  naught  all  previous  protestations  of 
Hertling  and  Czernin,  but,  on  June  24, 
Dr.  von  Kiihlmann,  the  German  Foreign 
Secretary,  admitted  for  the  first  time  in 
the  Reichstag  the  impossibility  of  ending 
the  war  by  arms  alone.  Hertling,  on  June 
25,  however,  declared  the  League  of  Na- 
tions formula  a  trap  to  isolate  Germany, 
and  he  rebuked  his  colleague  Kiihlmann. 

On  July  4  President  Wilson's  speech 
at  Mount  Vernon  added  four  more  ar- 
ticles to  his  peace  formulae  expanding 
the  idea  of  the  "  consent  of  the  governed  " 
.  principle  and  the  aim  for  destruction  of 
arbitrary  power.  Then  on  July  11  Hert- 
ling declared  that  he  was  ready  for  peace 
proposals,  but  that  "President  Wilson 
wants  war  until  we  are  destroyed."  On 
July  16  Baron  Burian,  who  had  succeeded 


[  165  ] 


Appendix 


Count  Czernin,  declared  that  Austria- 
Hungary  was  ready  to  discuss  peace  on 
the  basis  of  President  Wilson's  Mount 
Vernon  address  —  on  all  points  save  ter- 
ritory. On  Sept.  27  the  President  de- 
livered an  address  in  New  York  City 
which  put  in  concise  form  the  substance 
of  his  twenty-two  articles  in  regard  to 
arbitrary  power  or  military  power  versus 
the  people's  will.  It  was  practically  an 
answer  to  the  Austro-Hungarian  plea  of 
Sept.  15,  which  had  been  immediately 
rejected. 

Final  Exchange  of  Notes    • 

Oct.  5. — Prince  Max  of  Baden,  who  had 
succeeded  Hertling,  accepts  Presi- 
dent's program  as  basis  for  negotia- 
tions and  urges  an  immediate  armi- 
stice. Austria-Hungary  and  Turkey 
send  similar  notes.  King  Ferdinand 
had  abdicated  the  day  before. 

Oct.  8. — President  WUson  replies  to 
Prince  Max  through  the  Swiss  Gov- 
ernment, asking  whom  Prince  Max 
represents. 

Oct.  12. — Dr.  Solf,  the  new  German  For- 
eign Secretary,  replies,  alleging  he 
speaks  in  the  name  of  the  people  as 
represented  by  the  Reichstag  leaders. 

Oct.  14. — President  Wilson  in  reply 
states  that  no  armistice  can  be  ar- 
ranged unless  the  military  superior- 
ity of  the  Allies  be  protected,  and  he 
points  out  the  present  illegal  prac- 
tices of  the  German  military  com- 
mand. 

Oct.  19. — In  replying  to  an  Austro-Hun- 
garian note  received  on  Oct.  7,  the 
President  declares  that  the  original 
proposition  no  longer  obtains,  as  the 
United  States  has  recognized  the 
Czechoslovak  State  as  a  belligerent 
and  the  aspirations  of  the  Jugoslavs 


[i66] 


Appendix 


for  independence.  Austria-Hungary 
should  therefore  address  herself  to 
these  peoples,  as  mere  "autonomy" 
for  them  is  no  longer  a  basis  of  peace. 

Oct.  21. — Dr.  Solf  replies  to  the  Presi- 
dent's note  of  Oct.  14,  describes  the 
German  political  reforms,  [see  Revo- 
lutions in  Germany,]  and  asks  for  an 
opportunity  to  fix  the  details  of  an 
armistice. 

Oct.  23. — President  Wilson  in  reply  indi- 
cates the  kind  of  armistice  the  Allies 
have  to  offer,  but  still  expresses  doubt 
as  to  German  political  reforms.  He 
forwards  the  correspondence  to  the 
Allies. 

Oct.  29. — Austria-Hungary's  Foreign 
Minister  asks  the  American  Secre- 
tary of  State  to  intervene  with  the 
President  for  immediate  armistice. 

Oct.  31.— The  Interallied  War  Council 
meets  at  Versailles  and  frames  the 
terms  of  armistice,  which  the  Ger- 
man delegates  sign  Nov.  11. 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .   S   .   A 


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